Homeseeking

by Karissa Chen

For years afterward, he will riffle through his memories of this place he considers home, layering them on top of one another like stacks of rice paper, trying to remember what was when and never quite seeing the full picture.

The five plain back doors until the painted bunny comes into view, its flaked white outline wringing a pang in Haiwen’s chest. He will leave his violin here: he sees himself setting it down, laying it against the chipped paint as tenderly as he imagines a mother abandons a beloved baby.

He wants to remember every pore, every stray hair, wants to emblazon her into his memory, even as he is certain he will always know her, that even if he is an old man by the time he returns to her, even if she has aged and changed, he will know her.

Suchi laughed, full bellied and open-mouthed. Her laughter sounded exactly as he recalled, like spring rain upon glass. “It’s so nice to hear you laugh,” he said, and immediately regretted the sentimentality of the words.

“It never gets easier, does it?” Howard asked.