Maggie; Or, a Man and a Woman Walk Into a Bar

by Katie Yee

Wu Gang wishes to ascend to Taoist immortality, but he’s also sort of lazy and gives up. (I find this version most relatable.)

Always the one holding the camera, I felt a little bit outside of the present. It was a form of time travel. To take the photo, you’re looking through the lens of some future someone, looking back on this day. You are the record keeper.

Marriage, though, was more of a pull. We pulled the other person closer, into a whirlpool of domesticity, dirty dishes, dirty diapers, dirty laundry, family, in-laws, elaborate Christmas dinners. Family had its own gravity, knotted us into one contained unit. Family is a forest of its own, and I think along the way, we stopped being able to see some of the trees.

Mom. It becomes the call to which you must respond most often. And how odd it feels to suddenly go by a name you had used for someone else, like donning an old overcoat worn by every woman you know and hoping it somehow fits you, too.

I don’t know if I can picture my kids as anything other than the ages that they are. What will they be like in two years or as teenagers? Some mothers in the PTA claim that they can see it. They know that their son will be a gallery-worthy photographer, that their daughter has a knack for entrepreneurship. But I don’t even want to try; I like the surprise of it. I want to meet them new every day. When they come home from school—telling me about some new thing they love, or revealing a vitriol or consideration or caution I have never seen in them before—I resist the urge to shake their hand, say nice to meet you.