Mother slaps my hand.
Learn to compromise

I refuse to retrieve the pouches,
pout,
go to bed,
stare at the photograph of a real papaya tree,
wondering if I'll ever taste sweet,
tender, orange flesh again.

GOOONNNNGGGGG
rings out;
how soothing a real gong sounds.

Swirls of incense
reach me,
hovering like a blanket,
tugging me in.

I wake up at faint light,
guilt heavy on my chest.

I head toward the trash can.

Yet
on the dining table
on a plate
sit strips of papaya
gooey, and damp
having been soaked in hot water.

The sugar has melted off
leaving
plump
moist
chewy
bites.

Hummm...

Not the same,
but not bad
at all.

~

Written By: Thanhha Lai