illustration by Anderson X. Lee
Adjacent to the Theatre District and bordering Downtown Crossing, the Massachusetts Turnpike, and the South End was Chinatown. The Washington Street traffic was a cacophony of blaring horns, the friction of tires, and murmurs of blurred conversations from the people who meandered down the sidewalk. Across the street from the Chinatown Branch of the Public Library, the sound of the city grew quiet upon entering the revolving doors of an apartment building—whirling as if a year had passed, and the world had turned—until Millie Ming stepped out.
She walked in hurried steps as she felt her stomach twist and eat itself. She was starving, but this hunger wasn’t something that could be fed. Yet, she continued walking down the street, following her stomach, and leaving her heart in her room. It sat on the nightstand next to an unmade bed that cradled the warmth from her body, a part of her still lingering on the sheets. But what kept her heart at home was the incense that was burnt months ago but still rested on her nightstand. Grief was cold like an untouched meal, watching as the food lost its warmth and festered. So as the days had unfurled into weeks, up until the lotuses had bloomed, she became a chirirenge that never left its bowl.
As she turned down Essex Street, she shuffled past a young Chinese man who opened the back door of a yellow taxi. Keeping her head low, she watched the man greet the person who he was waiting for.
“Mā!” the man smiled, reaching out to the older woman. “I’ve missed you.”
He wrapped his arms around his mother who in turn smiled, patting her son on the back with her frail hand. The rest of their conversation merged with the traffic, and Millie was happy that it did. She could feel her face hardening to ceramic as she watched them, but she looked away before it was painted with an ache she couldn’t describe.
She felt an overbearing sense of longing. It clung to her skin like the smell of Sichuan peppercorns. This feeling numbed her as much as eating Dan Dan noodles did, but her tongue wasn’t laden with citrus or spice. It was heavy with yearning—yearning to say the same words the man had.
The thought of noodles made her hungry. But she had an appetite that could only be satiated by something that was gone. She craved for the arms that once wrapped around her, the heart that had beat alongside hers, the hands that put a Tiger Balm on her ankle when she sprained it as a kid and the soft voice that could clear her head more than a White Flower Balm could. She missed her mother, and it was a thought that rose above all others, wafting through her mind like steam.
I miss you were words that often shaped her mouth. She said it when she looked in the mirror, she said it on the trolley as she went to work, she said it before bed, and she said it when she was alone. She recited the words like a prayer before a meal.
She released a slow breath through her nose, closing her eyes for a brief moment before she remembered what she was doing, untangling her objective from her other thoughts. She couldn’t mourn, at least not today, so she continued down the street to Sūn’s Soup.
*
Sunlight poured into the small restaurant on the corner of Essex and South Street like hot broth into a bowl. Outside, the sun was now dipping to its lowest point and the city of Boston was simmering on the pavements fevered with the summer heat.
The restaurant was located on the first floor of the Lincoln Plaza, a brick building complex composed of offices, beauty salons, a dentist’s office, and other shops. The restaurant, among the other shops, was a family-operated business and despite its humble size, was continuously bustling. It’d been there since 2007 and it was noticeable—the red paint on each windowpane reading Sūn’s Soup was worn down with age, the paint cracked and weathered with life.
Through the windows, the sunset spilled honey and saffron yellow satin across the restaurant’s walls. In the warm glow, shadows only darkened to sepia and auburn. Only a few people were left sitting at the wooden tables and their conversations floated into the air like spices of ginger and clove.
A student was doing their homework in the back corner, their books spread across the table as their pencil scribbled hastily. An older group of ladies were laughing loudly as their eyes crinkled with their smiles (though their gossiping was not as discreet as they thought). There was a table of men and the sharp clack of ivory rose in the air as they bickered and hooted over Mahjong tiles.
Millie rested her arms on the surface of the bar counter, propping her elbows up as she cupped her chin. Her eyes wandered around the restaurant as she tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear. She favoured her spot at the bar over the tables as a vacant seat to look at was just as lonesome as the thought of walking back home to her empty apartment.
But a voice cut through her thoughts, and she looked up. “It’s not yi mein noodles, but it’s hand rolled.”
She settled her gaze on Brooks who busied himself with cleaning the counter. He was a waiter, but he often blurred the line between doing his job and being her friend as they had gotten to know each other over the months that Millie became a regular.
“Sorry?” she asked, reeling herself back into the moment.
Brooks flicked his gaze to hers for a moment before looking away. “Yi mein—we don’t have that here. But I was thinking you could have the specialty? The House Noodle Soup.”
“I’d rather have something else on the menu.”
He frowned. “Millie, you should have some it’s your—”
She shook her head which made him frown even further. She was tucking him away like a bill under a cup, but she knew he didn’t want his genuine concern to be something tipped for and then forgotten.
“Millie,” he tried again, putting his rag down as leaned towards her. “C’mon, it’s tradition to have—”
She leaned back, her mouth already forming an argument. “I’m not having—” “Noodles.”
“Brooks—”
“It’s your birthday, Millie.”
She sighed, knowing he was right. She reached out for the menu that Brooks had placed before her when she sat down. She had forgotten it, sipping on her water as she tried not to turn to the group of ladies behind her. She had heard one of them laugh and for a moment she thought the sound was as clear as the bell that rang above the door when she first stepped into the restaurant. It echoed in the small space because she believed it sounded like her mother’s. She wanted to turn around, look at the group, and find her mother sitting among them. She wanted to see her mother smile, see her sip on the wonton soup she always got from the menu, and have her mother beckon her so she could tell the other women about her daughter’s achievements. But she knew her mother wouldn’t be there.
“Fine,” Millie said. “I’ll have the special.”
*
Millie tapped against her bowl of noodles with her index finger, unhurriedly and almost stalling.
“Your noodles will get cold.”
Millie glanced up to see Brooks watching her with furrowed brows. A part of her wanted to know how Brooks remembered her birthday, but she didn’t want to question it because some small part of her was glad that he did.
She picked up her chopsticks and lifted the tendrils of wheat, watching the broth drip off. It created a small ripple, and her eyes watched the sliced green onions swim in her soup. The steam rose and wafted, brushing against her face like a soft blanket. It felt like she was back in bed, buried under her blankets as she had been for weeks.
“Legend has it that you should eat the whole noodle, or you might cut your life short,” Brooks said, filling the silence.
Millie raised an eyebrow. “That’s stupid.” “It’s just something people say.”
“We all know what people say.”
“Long noodles, long life,” Brooks grinned. He chuckled to himself and, if she had the energy, she would have smiled too.
Millie frowned as she looked at the noodles. They represented longevity, along with prosperity and good luck. Knowing what it meant and what it wished for, she didn’t want to eat them, not when she thought of a life that hadn’t lasted long.
She sighed, picking up the chirirenge and dipping it into her bowl. She let it sit there, letting it soak in the warmth as it hid under the broth and vegetables that floated on the surface. Then she slowly brought the spoon to her lips and took a sip.
“Your mom would’ve wanted you to have noodles today,” Brooks said softly.
Millie hummed, looking at the porcelain spoon as she took it out of her mouth to distract herself from her feelings. Of course, her mom would have. She had to celebrate her life.
“Wanna know something else?” Brooks asked, putting his hands on the counter as he leaned towards her. “Chirirenge means a petal of a lotus flower that has fallen off.”
Millie snorted. “That’s poetic.”
Brooks’s lips parted in a smile as if savoring her laugh, even if it was small. “I mean, it does look like a lotus petal.”
Millie looked at the spoon more thoughtfully. The handle was short and thick, and it extended into a deep, flat bowl. “I suppose.”
“Your mom loved lotuses, didn’t she?” Brooks rambled on. “So does my mom. You know, for what they mean. You know how moms can believe nonsense like that.”
Millie felt a smile tug at her lips despite the burn in her throat. She picked up some noodles with her chopsticks, blowing on them like candles on a birthday cake. She took a bite, breaking the noodles with her teeth. And as she watched the noodles fall, splashing into the broth, the ripples changed everything in the soup. Sometimes though, change was a good thing.
She thought of the pot of lotuses her mother had on their balcony. Her mother loved them because they symbolized healing and resilience. And in that moment she understood that her mother was resilient. That she was a woman who fought against the cancer in her breasts until the very last moment. The noodles might’ve meant to live a long life, but what mattered was that she did live—for however long she had left.
Millie felt a warmth fill her stomach as she sipped on the broth once again. It tasted like home, like salt, like she had a reason to be there. It tasted like her mother’s love.
It was the first time in months that Millie felt full.
Jacquelyn Puckey is a Filipina-Canadian writer based in Kelowna. She is a student at the University of British Columbia Okanagan who is pursuing a bachelor’s in Human Kinetics and a minor in Creative Writing. She loves to write about the Asian- Canadian experience and culture, the vulnerability of Asian mental health and healing, and how love can break and mend a person. Her favorite pastimes are reading, art, and going to the gym.