Crying in H Mart

by Michelle Zauner

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

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.

she was both my first and second words: Umma, then Mom. I called to her in two languages. Even then I must have known that no one would ever love me as much as she would.

If there was a god, it seemed my mother must have had her foot on his neck, demanding good things come my way.