Crying in H Mart

by Michelle Zauner

We ate in accordance with the seasons and holidays.

Food was how my mother expressed her love.

My grief comes in waves and is usually triggered by something arbitrary.

Every time I remember that my mother is dead, it feels like I’m colliding with a wall that won’t give. There’s no escape, just a hard surface that I keep ramming into over and over, a reminder of the immutable reality that I will never see her again.

We sit here in silence, eating our lunch. But I know we are all here for the same reason. We’re all searching for a piece of home, or a piece of ourselves.

I remember these things clearly because that was how my mother loved you, not through white lies and constant verbal affirmation, but in subtle observations of what brought you joy, pocketed away to make you feel comforted and cared for without even realizing it.

Hers was tougher than tough love. It was brutal, industrial-strength. A sinewy love that never gave way to an inch of weakness.

When I got hurt, she felt it so deeply, it was as though it were her own affliction.

She was guilty only of caring too much. I realize this now, only in retrospect.

Her perfection was infuriating, her meticulousness a complete enigma.

She believed food should be enjoyed and that it was more of a waste to expand your stomach than to keep eating when you were full. Her only rule was that you had to try everything once.

came to realize that while I struggled to be good, I could excel at being courageous.