Photo by Toa Heftiba on Unsplash
When Ah Ba’s thunderous voice crashed our boisterous games, it quieted the chickens in our backyard, the blue jays who came to drink in the pond, even our Koi fish hung immobile. We padded on the hardwood floor like skunks in twilight, paper-thin nightgowns trembling ever so slightly, waited until his snoring shook the shutters and plaster from the wall sprayed like glitter before we put our ears to the door, covering our mouths from giggling spittle. Ah Ba dreamt in our mother tongue, staccatos and growls, like a wild animal, and drooled sugary watermarks on his pillow. Tonight, a wail escaped between waves of shallow breaths, sobbing for his mother lost too young. The ground splintered under our feet. In the morning, we hugged our Ba like a giant velvet panda.
Christine H. Chen was born in Hong Kong and grew up in Madagascar. Her fiction has appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly, Time & Space Magazine, Centaur Lit. and anthologized in Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions and other collections and journals. www.christinehchen.com.
