In the dark kitchen, I watch the candles flicker, flinging shadows onto the peeling wallpaper. An unfamiliar silence floods the apartment now that the buzzing and droning of Laolao’s oxygen tank has ceased. I listen to her heavy breathing, then to Mama on the phone, asking how long the power outage will last. Laolao fixes a curious gaze upon me; her voice sounds distant. “Ai Dong,” she calls me, the name of Mama’s best friend when she was a girl. “Ai Dong, what are you doing here?” I do not know how to tell her it is not 1977 anymore.
Lucia Huang is a human being who enjoys writing whenever the time permits her. She hopes you are having a fantastic day.