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Hongvan Nguyen USA
After School’s Hours I watched her scoop the puffy, roasted, colorful rice balls, light as cotton from the big nylon bag into the smaller ones; then she handed me each of them so that I could seal the mouths of the bags by scanning them through the flaring tip of the candle’s fire.
The shadow of her face occupied half of the brick wall, was flickering and trembling in harmony with the dancing of the glimmering candle fire. It looked bloody red compared to the lurid hue of her real face, the one with some unknown, onerous ennui.
Suddenly, I realized she was no longer a little girl, the one whom I used to play hide-and-seek with just a few years ago. The financial destitute caused by the deposing regime had denatured us and transformed us from innocent, unworried children into senseless creatures seeking ways to feed our hungry stomachs.
She stopped scooping and asked to exchange the task. I didn’t like the scooping task more than the task of sealing the bags, and she wouldn’t slow down while I felt belittled, besotted and exasperated. I was thinking of the home work that I hadn’t had the chance to finish because of this job, and worried about getting a bad grade for it.
Feeling of my unusual silence, she said, “the prerequisite you get will help you keep doing it!” I smiled, understanding she couldn’t read what’s on my mind.
© Copyright, 2014,
Hongvan Nguyen. |
