A Lullaby
A version of this story was previously published in The Chaffey Review, Volume XI
I grab the edge of the wooden garage door and gently slammed it shut. I put on a white dust mask over my mouth and nose as I sit down in front of the sewing machine. I tighten the bandages around my fingertips and reminded myself to not let my fingers slip underneath the sliver of sharp metal. I press the black button as the machine whirs to life and I continued to work.
How many pieces of clothing did he have to make for that toy? Did he sew 30 shirts and 40 pants? Five dollars was the equivalent to 50 shirts, or 100 pants, or some combination of the two, that my father had to make to purchase that toy.
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Wanderlust: Familiar Faces
The air in Cambodian markets is always busy with voices. These voices always want something more, or something for a lower price, and are loud enough to overtake the sounds of the waves rushing in from the Kampot shoreline. I didn’t have the technique or the vocal chords to bargain in Khmer, but my cousin and aunt on either side of me held their own in the commotion.
Lullaby
Excerpt
My room was above the garage. The whir and hum of Ba pushing on the foot pedal to start the machine gun stutter of a needle piercing through the cloth would make one shirt, attach one pocket, one tag, at a time. The metal clang of the plastic spools holding the strings would stop and the snip of scissors would signify the product was complete. The click of an off-button caused the whir to rescind to a quiet croon. Maybe he finally finished and he could read with me.
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Distanced Love
I debated whether or not to buy the small, fat, yellow and black plaid pig magnet, a souvenir for my fiancé, Nao. I wasn’t sure if I was buying it out of habit because of a sentimental attachment I had formed for pigs, or if I actually wanted to buy Nao something so he would know that I was thinking of him while I was traveling in Bangkok.
Myattraction to the farm animal derives from the evolution of the word “pig” in my two-year relationship with Nao. Compared to Japanese girls, I would eat so much food that Nao called me a pig. I would make fun of his round tummy and call it my makura (cushion) but I ended up calling him a pig too. I would also tease him about his Japanese accent the few times he spoke in English with me.