On a humid July day, with cicadas humming and a soft wind purring, stood a house with shoes at the door. The house shook with anger and dramatic slamming, making it an awkward sore on an otherwise satisfying afternoon. 

​

However, the house is not a stranger to rage as we often fight as Asian mothers and eldest daughters do. Our native tongues flying at each other in a twisted slur. And poison spurting out of our mouths jabbing each other with malicious intent. Sharp nails leave an indent in the palms of our hands but neither of us can feel it over intense determination for triumph. 

​

Once again, the winner could not be settled and two pairs of storming feet rush in opposite directions leaving echoes of abusive words in the lonely kitchen. Soon after, the sour taste of regret and apology graces the air. Although I mutter a quick sorry, I gain no response. Despite this, I know when the sickly sweet mandarins and mango carry a mellifluous scent to my room that you are indeed apologetic. Apologies bruise your honor but the plate left on the counter is far more comforting than words.

 

The fruit leaves a trail of sticky juice on my hands as I pick it up and place it in my mouth. It tastes like love with a hint of salty sadness. The house stopped shaking. 

​

Men will never understand the relationship between a mother and a daughter and it is both a blessing and a curse. They will cease to understand the pain but will never be able to taste the fruit. 

​

​

-----------