“. . . Little sister went on talking. ‘I don’t visit
as much as I used to, but

at least she is there with our father—
and our mother is out there now too.

I’m the only one left, and so the house that was
once too small is now too big.’

It sounds silly, Weng—but it took me a moment
to realize what she was saying.

‘I can see my story has depressed you,’ she said finally,
‘but the end of my sister’s life was happy—because she knew what
love was like, got to taste it before she died with a boy who lived
nearby. Whereas I have lived a whole life and still don’t know how
it feels.’

I wanted to speak up! Cry out! Pull the sister toward me!
Tell her: I was that boy!

But all I could do was fix my eyes
on some object in that kitchen,

with little or no meaning.