Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4 - 7 2018 | Page 175

The last day we’d spent together: nothing special. A trip to the park, chasing each other around as the
spectre of war loomed heavy and dark above us. I’d thought at that moment that no matter what happened
next, at least I would always have that memory of a perfect spring day. But it’s different now. The grass
doesn’t smell as fresh anymore; I can’t quite recall the way mother used to call my name. The memory is
fading through a yellowing filter of grief and regret. “To me? More than there should be.”
“I thought you said-”
“It doesn’t define me.” I interrupt impatiently. “That doesn’t mean it isn’t important.”
We rock gently back and forth as the bus sways along the city streets, stopping and starting, starting and
stopping. A bird lazily wings its way across a grey sky.
7.
Half an hour of traffic stretches out into forty-five minutes. My handwriting is jerky as I’m bumped up and
down, but it’s with satisfaction that I close my notebook on an entire new chapter of writing.
The gallery where Cecelia works is small; run-down, dusty, and tucked away in such a way that everything
seems deliberately quirky instead of the result of neglect.
WHEN EAST MEETS WEST: PRESENTED BY CHEN AN, CECELIA. It’s the first thing I see when I
step inside: Cecelia standing next to a glossy blowup of herself.
“Hello, Chen An.” I dip my head in greeting and she smiles graciously enough, if more reserved than
before.
We walk through the corridor of artwork together until the very last piece. It’s titled “Wishes upon a star by
Chen An”, and I pick up the glass jar placed on the pedestal. Thousands upon thousands of tiny origami stars
rattle around inside, all covered with writing too small to see. They sparkle inside their jar, even in the
daylight.
“Will you teach me how to do that?” I ask. “Fold origami, I mean.”
“What are you-” She skitters over the answer for a moment, still fixated on the jar of stars. “Yes. Of
course.”
8.
Chen An’s apartment is full of origami. Paper constructions cover the table, the tops of cupboards, the
mantelpiece in her bedroom.
Paper cranes hang from the ceiling, threaded on strings that hang down by the windowsill. The light hits
them just the right way this time of the afternoon. They hang lifeless, illuminated by golden cages of light,
dangling pieces of paper given beauty by a few creases and folds in the right places.
She sits alone at a table. I look at her deftly flipping the paper over, painting the back with glue, then
making a tiny cut in the finished product and holding it up for inspection, and I realise that I want to tell
her.
That although we have tragedy growing on our bones, although I am still overcome by the sound of
gunshots and the meaning of the words I try to eke out from a bone-dry pen, while she puts on a smile as
she steps into higher and higher heels and covers her palm with paper cuts, although we are both still
floundering in this hazy Western dreamscape that has yet to resolve itself into reality, I would squeeze myself
dry of the ink that runs through my veins if I had to, for her.