Searching for Sylvie Lee

by Jean Kwok

I was not sure if we had truly loved each other or merely the versions of ourselves we had seen reflected in the other’s eyes—as if we had acted out a play together, both of us player and audience alike.

It’s as if Sylvie is trying to fulfill some fantasy of a real American Christmas, when none of us even know what that means. We’re still foreigners despite the years we’ve lived here. I may have grown up in Queens but my entire home life has been Chinese—chopsticks,

He smiled and then gave me three kisses on the cheeks, with none of the forced intimacy of American hugging, where you have to keep your breasts away from the closeness of the other person.

“How is everyone?” I asked as we strode down the motorized walkway to the lowered train platform. The wheels of my suitcase emitted a high-pitched whine as they scraped against the ribbed metal floor.

When you truly love someone and you see them again, even if it is many years later, their new face blends back into their old face and it is like no time has passed at all.

“No worries, Snow Jasmine. I will not pass on before I give you my treasure.”

I open the door to the tiny bathroom and am confronted with a statue of Buddha. He sits on a shelf behind the toilet. “I am so sorry you have to live here,” I say to him.

while nothing can replace that which is lost, emptiness creates room for new growth.