Allison Ming Yeh

I sat there looking at the small swollen lines, thinking about my grandma in the seat next to me and the lingering scent of a ginger candy she was sucking. 

Flattened, invisible and bloodless. That was how I wanted my chest to feel when playing football with my older brother and two cousins. 

It felt weird to roam around her Grandma’s house alone, without the buffer of family members chatting in the living room or her Grandma rummaging in the kitchen for another snack to put out or dish to make. 

After class someone asks you if you are crazy. Explain you ate a medley of Fruit Loops and Lucky Charms for breakfast and are fuelling off of two hours of restless sleep. 

I just wanted to apologize for the abandoned beehive I may have purposefully left on your bedroom dresser.