Needle

Let me tell you about your lao ye, Ayi says. I feel a pressure on my wrist, then a sharp tap as the needle bites into flesh, hovering just above rivers of blood. He was a general, ranked so high he had bodyguards follow him to the market, to his house, his life was so precious. Press, tap, into my calf. Press, tap, into my toe. Your lao lao was a teacher, she continues, and I nod, careful not to move, my body clamped in a quivering jaw promising to devour the mysterious pain in my belly, the one that aches whenever I remember that I forgot, whenever I admit that I don’t know. I listen to Ayi and her stories, but I can’t laugh lest the muscles swallow the pinprick and the hurt becomes real. I can’t cry, either.

A teacher, I think. Just like my mother. But the history my aunt spills into empty canals only swims halfway to my brain, the words shifting back and forth between comprehension and gibberish like a buoy bobbing up and down at sea, and by the time the session is over, I still can’t fully grasp who and where I come from. She was so nice, your mother, Ayi croons. That’s why it hurts so much. She slips the needles out like loose teeth until my skin is covered in pink polka dots, tattoos of little sufferings that remind me of her. By the next morning, they all disappear.