"In my deceased father’s room I sat down
on the carved rosewood bed. Hunched between the parted panels of the
yellow mosquito net, I sat amidst my father’s belongings—the bed, its
embroidered mat, the porcelain pillow, the tea, the rice liquor, the
areca-nuts and betel leaves and a tiny pot of lime. They were here for
him when he returned in spirit.
For many years now I had
replenished them every morning so that when he arrived nothing was
missing, nothing was stale. He could read his favorite books. He could
write, as was his passion, in his annals. He would find again his
ironwood scepter, jade shrubs, his chess men in green and white jade,
chopsticks made of kim-giao white wood that turned black against any sort of poison. They were arranged there under glass."
2013 December Issue
"Up the road was a crowd of natives standing in wait for a tramway. Away
from them stood a small group of Europeans, each donning a large straw
hat. He sat down under an Indian almond tree, and the coolness of the
shade brought back her visage, a half profile by a reading lamp now
daguerreotyped against his mind. I fell in love with the silk, the textile. I wore the sleeves and
looked at my reflection in the mirror and, yes, their elegance
encouraged me to imagine myself in such a silk dress. How can I describe
its hue? Neither white nor yellow. Help me describe it. Unless we can
imagine the yellow of ripened wheat, buffed to a shine. And it is
self-radiating. Perhaps the weaver knows. Perhaps she has the magic.
Remember, Gaston, you are in the Far East. Where magic abounds."
CHA: An Asian Literary Journal
Theme: Ancient Asia
