All About the Writer’s Family
Alex Lanz
72
“Ribbons. Incense. Red orange. Never did rot. A mounted piece
of wood. Crimson tassels dangled from this second floor altar. I never
saw anybody change out the fruit offerings—I was playing. To the left, two
bedrooms; and to the right, a tall banister whose thin wooden dowels I
played like a marimba. Aunt 4, who never laughed, played airplane with
me, sitting in the hallway on pillows, outside Uncle 1’s room, who was all
about business, and the sound of Chinese TV dramas. All day, everybody
made wanton dumplings for dinner, served with beef stew and French
bread, glass noodles and greens for building spring rolls, and everybody
was watching you; the bathroom locks didn’t even work. Uncles 3 and 4
played video games, and Aunt 2 loved to cook, although she wasn’t serious
enough to show affection. They’re gone; they all left the nest, as you do in
the West. Grandma’s too tired to tend her garden now. Everything about it
was large. A black table. Kitchen sunlight. Voices…. There. ”
After a pause, the therapist said, “I meant your immediate family.”