As long as I can

Tears sting my eyes as I stare vacantly at the red streetlight above my head. The sky is already a dark shade of gray as the night approaches. The light turns green and a wave of people pushes me forward. It would annoy me, normally, but today I’m glad someone else is propping me forward, as my legs can barely function at this point.

I've been walking for over an hour, heading nowhere, and this part of town is not familiar to me. Most shops are closed for the day, and the few restaurants and cafes are eerily empty.

A sudden wave of exhaustion washes over me and I stop in my tracks. I haven't eaten all day. The 2-hour bus drive that turned into eight hours didn't provide any snacks to apologize for the inconvenience. I guess that's the customer service I should expect from a small provincial bus line. 

I scan around for the less terrible option and the choice is only between a dark cafe and what I presume is a Chinese restaurant, from the red and gold lanterns hanging in the window. 

I decide to go for the Chinese one, mostly because it's the one that requires fewer steps to reach.

I push the door open and enter the warm room, decorated with antique Chinese art posters and large vases at every corner, filled with fake plants.

The room is empty, so I try to get someone's attention.

“Hello?” My voice sounds foreign to me, raw and low.

A moment later, a thin middle-aged man appears from behind a corner, reaching me at a speedy pace. His face is sunken, with deep creases around the eyes and mouth. He doesn't smile.

“Hello, please come in,” he says with a small bow. Even though I'm already in. “Table for one?” he continues, holding up his finger.

I nod, and he spins around, leading me to a small round table next to the window overlooking the street.

A moment later, the old man hands me the menu, in a large leather-bound burgundy case.

I turn my head to thank him, but he disappears behind the corner again.

My eyes scan through the menu, but nothing speaks to me. I'm not even sure I'm hungry. My gaze travels to the window and I stare at the people walking by. It starts to rain and a young mother shields her daughter's head with her coat. I feel my eyes burn with tears, longing for that closeness. My mom and I have never been really close, as far as I can remember. But there was an unspoken love between us. Our relation grew distant over the years and the guilt of this distance will torture me for the rest of my life. She was still my mother, and I should have been there for her.

It was hard enough living so far away, but what kind of daughter misses her own mother's funeral?

My mom struggled with depression on and off her whole life, so much so that it almost became the normalcy, and nobody could notice when it wasn't normal anymore. She finally had enough of life when she took a full bottle of pills four days ago. When I found out, I booked the first flight, leaving the next day.

Because of a snowstorm, my flight got canceled, and it took me two more flight connections and a long bus drive, just to arrive an hour after the funeral was over. 

I don't know how long my gaze lingers on the window, but when I turn my head, an old woman is standing next to my table, holding a small plate. My eyes blink rapidly from the surprise, but I’m thankful I didn't scream, instead. 

She places a plate with a small cookie on the table in front of me.

“Fortune cookie. While you wait,” she said in a warm voice.

I glance at her. She reminds me of Grandmother Willow from Pocahontas, with her deep lines on her face and her gentle eyes.

“Thanks,” I reply, my voice just above a whisper as I drift my gaze to the menu again. 

From the corner of my eye, I can see she didn't move at all. She stares at me, then points at the cookie.

“Open it,” she says in a firm tone.

I raise my eyebrows. “I thought fortune cookies were supposed to be eaten after the meal.”

“This is special one. Open it.” She then takes a seat in front of me.

“O…kay,” I say, unsure. I extend my arm to grab the golden cookie and snap it in half with a quick motion. My fingers tingle for a moment as I unfold the paper strip.

I read the words in my head, but as the woman is surely waiting to hear, I read them aloud too.

“Hearts that grieve also hold the strength to heal.” It's like it was written for me.

“Aahhh,” said the old lady, nodding. “You had a recent loss, yes?”

“Yes, how do you–?”

The woman stands up. “Mm, I know what you need–” She rushed away, disappearing behind the corner.

She comes back a few minutes later, holding a bowl of soup.

“Soup?” I ask, confused.

“Miso soup.”

“I don't like miso soup.”

“You'll like this one.” She places the bowl in front of me and the clear broth swirls in the bowl like the sea during a storm.

The old lady sits down in front of me again, and I sigh. Arguing seems futile and I don't have the strength for it.

I grab the white ceramic spoon and the woman makes me halt as she speaks.

“Think of a good memory.”

“What?” I'm starting to wish I'd chosen the dark cafe.

“Think of a good memory of your mama, no matter how old–”

“How do you know it was my mo–?” I interrupt her, but she ignores me.

“Any memory will do, as long as it's happy.”

I drop my gaze to the bowl. No harm in doing that. It might actually do me some good to think good thoughts. I don't search long for a memory. A photo immediately comes to mind, and I bring the spoon full of soup to my lips.

The hot liquid swirls on my tongue. As I blink, my surroundings blur, and a gust of wind blows against my face, forcing me to squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them again, I feel lightheaded. I cannot explain the sensation. It feels like I'm inside a giant soap bubble, looking out.

It's sunny, and I can hear kids' laughter in the background. I vaguely recognize the building, even though I haven't been here in over twenty-five years. I take a moment to glance at my surroundings, and I see colorful balloons and kids I don't remember the name of. It's exactly as in the picture I remembered.

There I am, an 8-year-old kid with a flowery dress, running around. I try to make eye contact, but she cannot see me, nobody can. I get to the center of the room and overlook the long table filled with food and gifts, the words happy birthday hanging on the back wall.

I wait, as someone in the background asks to take a photo. The kids are gathering around me as the young me stands in the middle. My parents are there, right next to me.

They both look happy. I focus on my mom and her smile. I don't remember seeing a smile like that in such a long time.

My lips curve up, and my eyes well up with tears. My mom hugs the young me. I wish I could tell myself to hold on to it. Hold on to this moment because it will not get back. You won't know which hug will be the last.

I move forward to get closer. So close I can almost touch her. I try to extend my arm to her face, but a sudden gust of wind brings me back in a blink of an eye. And all I see is the old lady staring at me with a grin.

It takes me a moment to realize where I am and what just happened. The woman chuckles under her breath.

“What was that?” I ask, but she doesn’t respond. Her dark eyes still locked on me.

I glance down at the bowl of soup and I grab the spoon. Without thinking twice, I bring another spoonful of soup to my mouth. I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for the gust of wind, but nothing happens.

I open my eyes, and the old lady smiles, holding a finger up. “Only works once.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” My voice wavers.

She shrugs. “You would have taken too long to choose a moment. This way, it was chosen by heart.” She presses her palm on her chest.

I drop my shoulders and let out a sigh. So it’s over then.

The old lady stands up and pats her hand on my shoulder. “You hold on to that memory, okay?”

She starts to leave and I stop her. “Wait! Do you have anything else?”

The lady turns back. “What else?”

“I don’t know. Other magic–things.” I shrug.

She raises an eyebrow. “Mm…I may have something else, but it’s really powerful.”

“I’ll take it! What is it?”

The woman hesitates an instant, scrutinizing me with her dark eyes. Then moves towards a wall and pushes a painting to a side, opening a safe behind it. She brings out a tiny red wooden box and opens it in front of me. Tiny ginger candies are inside.

I glance up at her and she nods.

“What do these do?” I ask as I take one in my hand.

“You can ask one question. Only one.” She holds up her finger again.

“Okay…” I bring the ginger candy to my mouth when she interrupts me.

“No questions about where they are now. No questions about divine. No questions about anything after death. Clear?” she admonishes.

“Okay, clear,” I say quietly. I give her a last glance, then pop the ginger candy in my mouth.

I can taste the sweet and spicy ginger swirling in my mouth before my tongue goes completely numb and I cannot taste anything at all. I’m not even sure I still have a tongue.

I turn to the old lady, but everything around me is a blur. It’s happening.

I wait in heavy silence, hearing only my heartbeat. When a deep soothing voice rings softly in my ears.

“Hi Nana.”

Only my mom used to call me Nana.

My voice is stuck in my throat, but I force it out with all my strength. “Mom?”

I feel my chest compress as I try to hold in the sobs, but I have no power against the tears pouring out.

The silence makes my heart race and I fear losing the moment. A question. A question.

I have no time to think, but only one question has been reverberating in my head every day since it happened.

“Why? Why did you do it, mom?” My voice is raw.

Silence.

“Why did you do it, mom?” I scream.

I hear a low vibration, like a sigh, then a whisper. “It’s okay.”

Nothing else.

My surroundings suddenly become clear again, and I realize she’s gone. She’s gone again.

The old lady looks at me with pity in her eyes. She grabs my hand and squeezes it between hers. 

“You hold on to the good memory, okay? For as long as possible,” she whispers.

I try to hold in my sobs to no avail, but I manage a nod.

“Some questions are better left unanswered. There is no answer that could ease the pain,” the lady says softly. I feel tears run down my cheeks and I see them fall inside the bowl, creating tiny ripples in the soup.

I sink my face in my hands, trying to regain control of my breath. 

I think about the woman’s words. 

There is nothing I can do now. I cannot go back and change things. I can only try hard to find forgiveness. For her. And for me.

“Have you decided?” A male voice startles me. I jerk my head up and lock eyes with the man I met earlier.

I look around. I’m alone in the room and my table is clear, with the menu open in front of me.

“I’m...Sorry. I was with the lady. Is she your wife? Or your mother?” I ask in a feeble voice.

The man furrows his brows and glances around.

“Who?” he asks in a high pitch. “I’m alone here. I cook, I clean, I serve. I do all myself.” A tinge of annoyance in his tone.

“The old lady. She gave me soup, and ginger...” I point to the wall with the painting hiding the safe. But there’s no painting there. Only plain wallpaper and a fake plant in front.

I freeze, my heart’s racing. Did I... I shake my head.

The man puffs. “So, you order or not?”

I’m paralyzed by shock and I don’t even glance at the menu when the words come out of my mouth in a whisper.

“Miso soup.”

He lets out a low grunt and spins around, rushing behind the corner. 

I sink into my chair. Thoughts are spinning wildly in my head.

I don’t even want to know if that was a dream or my imagination running loose. 

My gaze drifts to my hands on the table, pale against the dark wood. I notice the similarities to my mom's hands. I never noticed that before.

I think again about the picture of my eighth birthday party. I don't know why I chose that. I have many other good memories with her, but that smile…That looked genuinely happy. I can't say the same about the other smiles in my memories. 

When did she stop being happy? Could I have done something more? I'll never know. But the old lady was right. There is no answer that would ease the pain.

I stare at my reflection in the window and promise to myself to not let the guilt consume me.

I will hold on to the good memories, because that’s the only thing that can save me now. 

I will hold on to them.

For as long as I can.