Page 8 - My FlipBook

The bus pulls into Taiyuan around eleven at night, but the
city still seems awake. Taiyuan is only a third-tier city, but
the avenues within the metropolitan area are as wide as high-
ways and lined with businesses and industrial parks, dizzyingly
bright with lighted signs of every color. I texted my parents the
time of my arrival, but they didn’t respond. Now, I get off the
bus and enter the vast, dimly lit station, unsure if anyone will
be here to meet me. As I aimlessly follow the other passengers
into the echoing building, I start to worry about how I’ll find
Mama and Baba’s apartment, since I’ve only been to Taiyuan
once before.
“Na! Na!” Mama’s throaty voice chokes out my name
before I see her. There she is, rushing toward me across the
lobby, through the straggly crowd of weary passengers who
glance at her as she flies by them. Her smallness surprises me,
as it always does. The last time I saw her was five months ago in
our village during the Spring Festival. She was lively and full of
plans then, helping Nainai scrub the house and make noodles
and dumplings for the New Year feast.
Now, she looks thin as a child, her face painfully pinched.
Her hair is a black, unruly frizz in the heat. She reaches out to
me and clasps my arms, squeezing them, before one hand slides
up to stroke my cheek. She smiles at first, painfully, but after a
moment her face cracks, and tears are streaming.
“Mama!” My voice breaks. I’ve never seen her cry, and my
stomach flips with anxiety. She stands sobbing, her head bent
in her hands. People stare openly at her as they pass by. They
know these are not tears of a happy reunion. My ears turn hot
at her public display. I am completely helpless.
“Mama, let’s go,” I say timidly. I hook my arm through hers
and pull her along while my heavy bags bump against my back

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