My fingertips curl gently

over the bodies of the spoon

in my right hand and fork in my left,

like muscle memory.

Just the smell of Asian food

brings back habits

that I inherited from my grandparents.

Even after all these years

of rage and zero apologies,

I find small memories

in every grain of rice

cupped in a meat-paired scoop,

like delight pushed against tear drops

I almost forgot about.

I know pain is heavy to carry,

that’s why forgiveness is a strength.

Maya Angelou was right.

People will not remember what you said,

they will remember how you made them feel.

And my Cơm Tấm Nướng

makes me think of the restaurant

they would bring me and my little brother to.

The big bowls of pho

they would buy

with every kind of meat we liked.

The pork chops I scarfed down

without a care for my metabolism.

I choke back tears.

The nilaga stewing on the stovetop

for three days on simmering heat,

the fat skimmed clean.

When I would sneak downstairs

just to fish out bone marrow

before anyone else would notice.

And naturally, my grandparents

had more where that came from

in the freezer,

endless pieces always waiting for me.

The garlic fried peanuts

sitting on the kitchen table

all the time.

The tortang talong next to it,

cooked hours ago,

placed strategically

because I never ate

when everyone else would.

The love

in leaving out food

knowing I’d be hungry,

and not rushing me to stop my homework.

No matter how many times

I was scolded for anything under the sun.

Despite my grandmother

hating me on the outside

for having my mother’s life inside of me,

using me as a weapon against her.

Despite the cage of guilt

they built around my father,

making him feel as though

he was never enough.

Despite the harm they had done

to both my parents

that forged the heart ache

my brother and I lived in.

In between the harsh words fed to me

as endless appetizers to secret love…

are the moments

when food is the only way

i can remember them fondly