I didn’t have a reason to visit home, so I scrambled some together.
I turn to the artist, searching. But it’s not the same.
I’d long thrown out the idea of destination – it was toxic vocabulary, in my mind, and a wild wish against fate.
I too will be gone for the holidays, but it’s not yet the holidays.
At the start of 2021, I wrote a story called Love in the Form of Taiwanese Dinner...
on my love for and simultaneous aversion to the immigrant novel.
We are a winter sun, a Santa Ana wind, a San Franciscan fog, and we will hope never to be old or wise or kind enough to ourselves...
how simple yet difficult it is to say that I’ve done something that has brought me joy.
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