Do you remember when my mom used to bring us Chinese food after work? I thought she was always so pretty—even in her work jeans and boots, her hair teased and poofed up. 

Chicken chow mein with baby corn.

Wasn’t there something frivolous about it all? She didn’t feel like cooking, Kwon’s was on her way home. Wasn’t it beautiful that she had control over that moment? This didn’t require moral introspection, fight/flight, him versus us.  

“Someone told me long ago…”

She saw him hit me but she didn’t know. 

Shrimp fried rice, extra chili sauce. Wasn’t her careless laughter so contagious? Couldn’t she talk to anyone? 

She saw the rain coming down on a sunny day, but she didn’t know. 

“I know.”

She saw him break my nose, she heard me scream. But she didn’t know. 

“‘Til forever, on it goes.”

Kwons tastes just as good the next day, reheated in the microwave. Extra green onions, please. 

He said, “get him out of my sight before I kill him.”

Wasn’t it fun when she would dress up? When she would wear her leather jacket and do her makeup? Didn’t it feel good when she smiled so hard her eyes would close? 

“Have you ever seen the rain?”