Writing
As if things were all back to the beginning like a couple summers ago, she sat in the very front row to enjoy the church’s annual talent concert. Everything about the church seemed promising to her. The same wooden benches reminded her of the family road trip to New York when she was eight and had to sit on the hard and cold tile floors to wait in a long line for the one stall unisex unisex bathroom of Shell. That time, her father bought her a fresh bag of buttered popcorn. The long and narrow sanctuary, the dark red carpet filled with more shoes stains each year. A colorful mosaic cross behind the white wall where the pastor preaches, allowing tinted sunlight to pull its cover over the four corners of sanctuary.
She enjoyed this day out of all the other days of her summer visit to Taiwan, where her paternal grandparents live. The youth group performed Bee Gee’s How Deep is Your Love. Most of them stood awkwardly. Slouched backs and tight shoulders, barely singing to the soundtrack. The karaoke soundtrack overpowering their voices. She lifted the corners of her lips, smiled gently as she watched these “kids” who can’t wait to finish their heartless performance that they threw together last minute. She had been in their shoes, too. Every summer before college, she came to this church and made friends with the local kids who attended this church. Now all of them went their separate ways after high school graduation. So did she.
She stared at the stage, thinking of the past. One performance after another, she began nodding her head to the rhythm of the music. She sat with both hands overlaying each other on her lap. Her left leg crossed over her right. Her straightened back leaning against the wooden bench which was then slightly warm. Many times, she unconsciously lifted her left hand to touch the outer corners of her warm eyelids. A few times she touched her nose. As the program excited on, she finally closed her eyes, leaned forward and covered her face as streams of tears rolled down to the melody of the hymn, “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”
This was the first summer after college at CalArts, where she studies experimental animation. She arrived to the United States 11 years ago with her mother and brother from Taiwan. Because her father stayed in Taiwan for work and for grandparents, she traveled back to Taiwan every summer and would spent the entire vacation there. Taiwan is very dear to her as is this church. Revisiting a place of her dearest memories following a year full of transition was enough to bring her to tears. Amy was an emotional person like that. She tears up the most when she reflects on her own life. Yet, she knows that she teared up earlier for something so much deeper than that.
“You look like you went through a lot this year,” “you look so mature now,” she constantly heard these comments from others who have watched her grow up. Was it that obvious? She went to the restroom several times to stare at her face in the mirror, trying to remember how she looked like to this mirror last year and the year before that. The thicker lines underneath her eyes and a more gaunt face gave it away that she went through a tough time.
to be edited… continued…
