Red Bean Soup
Do I remember what to order?
We had descended from the high-rise
flat on Ma Tin Road
in Yuen Long, walked out to
the Big Street, it
was called Dai Ma Lo
I followed like a little sister
like so many times before,
at the sweet dessert parlor,
among many stalls parked illegally
in the alleyways
of Hong Kong,
drips of sweat drown
our foreheads as we unravel
the stools stacked in the corner
of the metal round tables,
a smidgin of mango pudding,
a drip of black sesame soup
left behind from the loud
crowds carousing after work,
as the clatter of bowls
are collected, and a hand mimicking
writing on the palm
as a notebook paper
calling out our order,
the waitress slips the paper
under the glass of the tabletop
as the condensation
begins to form as the humid
air gushes like a wind hitting against
the run-down air conditioner,
we took a leap to the outside
underneath the neon-imaged sky,
piping hot as I anticipate
all the pressures from our
days, it was our vision
for satisfaction
for one genuine moment,
contained in a bowl of
red bean soup.
Dedicated to my Cousin Joey, as her memory lives deep inside my mind and heart.
