I was the woman and he was the man, I was Asian and he was white, I was just another local girl and he was the dashing coveted foreigner. . . .
. . .every time a plane flew over, Dai would go out to the yard, jump up and down in time to “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy . . .”, head held high up, hands reaching upward.
The art of naming in Chinese is a balance of beauty and meaning.
Linda liked the mini quiches and popped them like gum drops. She was as big as a house.
As I close my eyes, I think of a gentle rain and the red flowers.
"...the man developed the film and very carefully made print after print, watching the two of them take shape on the white paper..."
I remember a riddle my grandmother taught me. "Walang puno, walang ugat, hitik ng bulaklak." No tree, no roots: these millions of flowers.