后花园, Quanxing Rd, Pidu District, Chengdu, Sichuan, China

“Ten, nine, eight..”

The Wizard’s voice grows increasingly distant as we sprint with short legs up the winding stairs.

“Mei,” I call after the chubby seven-year-old moving her legs as fast as they’re willing to go, “do you wanna hide together?”

No answer comes and only laboured heaving can be heard as footsteps play skipping stones with the steps of the staircase. My breath comes in pants as my legs give out at the top floor, muscles collapsing in a jellied heap.

“Let’s go into this room first,” Jun Yi’s whisper comes from the door on my right.

I pick myself off the ground, hands dusting off the debris that has become one with my dress. Little feet gentle and imperceptible, I shuffle into the empty bedroom, rid of any furniture or care.

Dust flies as we open the door to a closet, home to disrepair instead of clothes. We cram our malleable bodies into the closet in the peak of the Wizard’s lair, the room filled with the tangy aftertaste of huajiao*.

“Hurry up and get in! We’re gonna get caught!” I mutter to my little cousin.

Our socked feet slide as we tuck our lanky limbs in, the space brimming with perpetual neglect.

“Jie, you hidden?”

“Be quiet! You’re so loud!” I shush.

We hear thumping up the ancient staircases and the floorboards wail as my uncle makes his way up his lair. In one fluid movement, my uncle bursts into the room, throwing open the closet door.

Jumping, we squeak.

“I caught you,” the Wizard says, beaming.

Even after we’ve moved out of that tower, I like to think a part of my childhood is still stored there, within the winding staircases, and weathered shelves, once wandered through by two little kids. Two who are now grown up.

Glossary:

*Huajiao - a regional spice native to Sichuan

Her glowing hair, her eyes, her smile. I met this girl in my second grade ballet class while struggling to point my feet and turn out. She was like a diamond rose, pretty, transparent, and shining with beauty.

I remember one Wednesday night where she walked in front of me at dance, laughing with her friends, and I had just held my breath and squeezed my eyes shut until their footsteps and giggling faded away like your memories of youth. Only then was I bold enough to open my eyes

Fast forward 3 months and this girl became my friend. She’d come over for sleepovers and we would sing our souls out jamming to 2013 Taylor Swift while filling our stomachs to the brim with root beer. I was with this girl six days a week and on the rare occasion that we were not together, we were texting or calling each other. We were so close that some people had thought we were a couple. Although, we would’ve made a great couple.

I remember that October night, 4 years later, I got a call from her saying she was moving away to a boarding school. A month later she stopped replying to my messages altogether. I was confused. No, I was furious. The last call I had with her was terrifying. I was angry and she was exasperated. When the line went dead, I never heard from her again.

The first two weeks without her being there for me was scary. Everything had reminded me of her, from tying my shoelaces to remembering to feed my fish. I missed her. The fish died. The bitter taste of loneliness hit me when I realized she wasn’t coming back.

I remember that one rainy autumn night when I walked to the place where we’d wait until it was dark then run out onto the streets like idiots dancing in the rain.

But all my memories hold on to a string of hope that one day she will text me and say “Do you remember that night?”

The plane had landed at the Toronto Pearson International Airport. We got into the rented car, rushing to the hospital. A strong chemical and antiseptic scent filled the air even before we entered the building. It was quiet in the hospital on this Thanksgiving night, and the only sound was our footsteps echoing against the walls of the hallway. After the elevator door opened on the eighth floor, we hurried to the third room down the corridor.

Inside the room, a man, with different medical machine wires attached to his body, was sleeping. Holding my hand, my mom brought me closer to the bed.

“Max, we are here. Do you want to talk to little Cy?”

Wait. Something must have gone wrong. My dear Uncle Max used to be strong as a bull. This person in front of me was frail and bony. Seeing the stranger’s bald head and colorless face, tears escaped my eyes. Where did my Uncle Max go?

Uncle Max slowly opened his eyes and when he saw me, he gave me a huge but weak smile. Looking at his face, I held his hand tightly.

“Are you very sick? Are you going to die?”

“I am sick, but I am not going to die. I promise I will get better very soon. We can then spend time together in December building gingerbread houses and singing Christmas songs as we always do.”

Feeling his warmth, seeing his bright smile, and listening to his assured voice, I truly believed in him. I knew that he was going to recover, and I knew that we were going to have many more fun moments in the future. Before I left, I gave Uncle Max a big hug while he said to me:

“Remember to stay strong and keep fighting, my little girl, no matter what happens in your life. Never give up easily.”

“Don’t worry, Uncle Max. I will always remember what you taught me. I will become a brave and courageous person like you.”

I whispered those words to Uncle Max... two weeks later at his funeral.

Brilliant blue strikes the ground outside. Heavy rain drenches the grass and pounds against the window, mercilessly disrupting sleep throughout. Blankets were tossed to the side as my eyes gaze out, camera ready in hand, waiting for the perfect moment to capture. Excitement could be sensed within the room as I peered into the night, watching as raindrops started to fall; knowing that if I had the window open, the scent of petrichor would flood my nose.

Though, the situation was quite funny. I had grown up with a distaste for storms and the dark, too worried about what was lurking beneath all the ruckus in the hallways and shadows that littered every crevice. Shoulders would shake at the slightest of sound and let out inaudible whimpers when crashing noise from above hit the earth. But it was moments like these, where the thunder and heavy thud of the rain felt soothing to the ear, creating a bubble in the nearly pitch black room that illuminated with every crash and flicker of lightning, that I wondered what would’ve been if I’d stayed scared of beauty forever.

Objects come to life for split seconds, casting their silhouette on the walls before returning to their dormant state. The camera clicks. Light bounces away from view with vigor in its step, followed by the roar of the clouds. The seconds fly by as I wait for the next bolt to hit, longing to hear and witness the blues that would brighten the quiet streets. But it would never come. Rain trickled to a slow stop as clouds moved by and winds died down bit by bit. With a camera roll filled with pictures of the natural phenomenon, the blankets were rearranged and tossed over myself, anticipation leaving me buzzing as I laugh about the past and wait for the next arcs of light to come once more.

It was in the middle of autumn and I was reading a Captain Underpants book that had several missing pages and smelled like stale orange juice, when my teacher gathered everyone onto the bright, red carpet.

“Class, today we’re drawing a self portrait!” she exclaimed. Whilst everyone groaned, I beamed: I loved art. Happily, I scribbled my short, brown hair using a waxy umber crayon onto the printer paper. When it was time for the face, I was stuck. I rummaged through the Crayola pack, but none of them matched my skin tone.

“Just use yellow, it's an Asian skin colour,” a classmate blatantly said. I stared at the buttery yellow crayon: it was chipped and cracked like lips. His words glided into my ears like a drop of water on an oily surface. I glanced at my skin and back at the crayon. There was no resemblance whatsoever.

“How?” I thought, yet, I didn’t argue.

My next encounter occurred in grade three after a math test. When I was handed back my test, I pressed my eyes shut, before then reluctantly opening them. “13/16”. My eyes burned into the crinkled page, silently wishing that I could erase the mark with a snap of my fingers. The paper rustled as I tried to stuff the worthless sheet of paper into my backpack before a peer of mine snatched the paper out of my hands.

“Oh Em Gee,” she said snidely, “Aren’t Asians supposed to be good at math? I thought you would get a hundred percent or something like that.”

We made eye contact for five whole painful seconds, my mouth gaping at her the whole time. I could hear the plastic chairs scraping against the metal table beneath my feet while I processed the information.

“...What do you mean by that?” I finally spat out, confused.

She looked at me, as if I were dumb, “Asians are supposed to be smart, obviously.” So I tried harder each day, to become what others expected me to be, without realizing that I was drowning my identity into the gutters.