Claudia

“The Grief was always there; if not centre stage, then lurking in the wings, or hanging from the rafters, or pulsing beneath the floorboards. But it didn't always need my attention. I could ignore it - for a little while, at least. I was always grieving, but sometimes I was grieving with an AND.”
― Savannah Brown

“When I got hurt, my mom was livid, as if I had maliciously damaged her property.”
― Michelle Zauner, Crying in H Mart

“That night, lying beside her, I remembered how when I was a child I would slip my cold feet between my mother’s thighs to warm them. How she’d shiver and whisper that she would always suffer to bring me comfort, that that was how you knew someone really loved you. I remembered the boots she’d broken in so that by the time I got them I could go on unbothered, without harm. Now, more than ever, I wished desperately for a way to transfer pain, wished I could prove to my mother just how much I loved her, that I could just crawl into her hospital cot and press my body close enough to absorb her burden. It seemed only fair that life should present such an opportunity to prove one’s filial piety. That the months my mother had been a vessel for me, her organs shifting and cramping together to make room for my existence, and the agony she’d endured upon my exit could be repaid by carrying this pain in her place. The rite of an only daughter. But I could do no more than lie nearby, ready to be her advocate, listening to the slow and steady beeping of machinery, the soft sounds of her breathing in and out.”
― Michelle Zauner, Crying in H Mart

“Back at home, I called again to have her walk me through the process, frustrated that her instructions were always so convoluted, even when it came to making rice. “What do you mean put my hand on top of the rice and add water until it covers it?” “Put water in until water covers your hand!” “Covers my hand? Covers my hand until where?” “Until it covers the top of your hand!” I held the phone against my shoulder, my left hand submerged under water, laid flat on the surface of the white rice. “How many cups is that?” “Honey, I don’t know, Mommy doesn’t use cup!”
― Michelle Zauner, Crying in H Mart