JULIA LI

Julia Li is a second year MSPA candidate at Stanford University School of Medicine.  Her work has appeared in R2: Rice Review, the Rice Thresher, and Blood and Thunder Magazine. Julia is a recipient of the 2022 Max Apple Prize in Creative Nonfiction and the 2022 George G Williams Prize in Creative Writing, and she is the recipient of the 2023 Schumann Brother’s Grant for Travel Journalism and 2022 English Minter Summer Scholars Scholarship. She attended Tin House’s Summer Workshop in Summer 2024.  

PERSIMMONS

I arrive home with a suitcase. No explanations other than a call to my mother that I was coming home for a week and could I please have the persimmons if they were still in season if it’s not that much of a hassle? 

When I arrive in front of the same two-story, red brick home, everything’s about the same except I notice the new wrinkles that have etched themselves under my mother’s eyes and the new wreaths that she hangs under the lights in front of the garage instead of the tattered red ribbons.

I bring in my Rinowa suitcase, letting it clatter to a stop as my mother purses her lips and tells me to stop. It’s hollow, completely empty save for a few sweaters and undergarments. As if on cue, she procures a pair of plastic gloves, the crinkling plastic an aberration to my ears, as she meticulously slides them on and uses Clorox wipes to thoroughly wipe every crevice of my near-empty suitcase. I hear her weary sigh and sharp inhale of her breath before she launches into a monologue of battered Mandarin and chopped English. 

I take off my shoes and leave my mother in the foyer. I go straight up to my room, close the door, and collapse in my childhood bed. My mother only wakes me up once to bark at me to change out of my airport clothes. I roll over, pull the pillow over my head, and let the fatigue seep in, lulling me to a dreamless sleep. 

~ 

We go to Costco in the morning wordlessly. My mother hands me the keys, but I feel the friction in her pursed lips and pointed gaze every time that I brake too hard or narrowly miss the curb. I meet her eyes in the rearview mirror, daring her to say something. She doesn’t break eye contact. Neither do I. The two of us stare at each other, and I slam on the gas. I hit the curb, and the car jostles enough that my mother’s eyebrows shoot up in fear— then it’s gone, and my mother harrumphs, but I catch a sound that’s reminiscent of humor in it. We are silent for the rest of the drive.

I hate the way my mother pronounces Costco. It’s jarring — she says it like Coast-co, and I have given up on correcting her. I push the cart through the sea of people, and my mother mutters under her breath about coupons and which protein powder to pick out. Coast-co always has the cheapest plums, my mother proclaims. She rattles the boxes of green grapes and directs me to pick up a carton of eggs in the life-sized refrigerator. I walk aimlessly, milling through people. I hear my mother’s snide remark under her breath as she too tries to navigate Coast-co. Ren shan, ren hai. The clean translation: people mountains, people sea. I used to bend the translation to make sense of it — there are so many people that they could fill the mountains and the sea. Today, I think there’s no better way to describe Coast-co. The people, mountains, and the sea. 

My mother’s voice snaps me from my thoughts, and I do as she says, coasting through the people as I pick up her orders. Plums. Eggs. Custard tarts. Mix and match bagels. It all feels so meaningless. 

I coast anyways. 

~ 

On the third day, my mother broaches the subject between smacking her greasy lips as she parses through the kimchi fried rice and steamed bok-choy. You cannot run away forever, she says, her voice layered with judgement. You cannot. 

I push the bok-choy around my plate, pick at the wilted napa cabbage, and shovel a spoonful of grainy rice into my mouth. I chew long and hard, then meet my mother’s eyes. Ten years ago, when I was still a teenager who craved verbal duels and had something to prove, I would have jumped at the chance to dismantle her words. Instead, I stare blankly at my mother, barely registering the taste of her kimchi. A little too sour today. 

My mother clamps her lips together in distaste as she deftly picks up a portion of bok-choy. Her voice is smooth and full of judgement. I did not raise you to run away the second a man drops you. 

I drop the metal spoon, letting the clatter of it reverberate between us. There are a million words that are unspoken between us, and I stare at my mother, meeting her fiery gaze. She smiles, satisfied that her words have finally elicited a reaction from me, and I see remnants of green in between her teeth. 

My mother sighs, as if she’s doing me a favor, and I’m a surly child who refuses to listen to her. Just because your father left you doesn’t mean that you need to react like this every time a man leaves you. Breakups are normal. They are part of life. 

I stand up, collect my plate, and start running the water to rinse off the plates. I don’t tell her that she has bok-choy between her teeth. 

~ 

I never have understood my mother, and I have made no attempt to try to either. She is the same; like mother, like daughter. My mother marches around the house, revving the vacuum at eccentric hours of the night, meticulously wiping down the dust that collected on the window sills and the top of the bookshelves with a wet rag. She leaves the rags by my door, proof of her hard work, as if to say Aha! I told you there was dust, and without me, there would have been nobody else to clean it. I leave the rags by my door, untouched, even as the pile builds. It is a game that we play. 

I lay in bed for most of the week, holding my phone between my fingers, the blaring glow of the screen illuminating my face. My mother leaves me alone for the most part of the day, and I only leave my bed to either ransack the cupboards or to use the bathroom. I think of what word could encapsulate my feelings — perhaps this is what rotting is? My college roommate always liked to tell me that she needed time to rot, which translated to spending a day in bed, surrounded by all her favorite things as she scrolled aimlessly on her phone while Gilmore Girls played on repeat like white noise. I usually left her alone during those sessions, tip-toeing around her. 

I stay in bed, barely registering that the curtains have been drawn for days to block out any filtered sunlight. My thoughts float by in my mind, never lasting too long. I should get up. I should go back to my one-room apartment in the city. I should go back to work. I should let go of him. I should apologize to my mother, and thank her for taking me in anyways. I should be the bigger person. I should be. I should. I. 

I imagine my thoughts to be like clouds, sailing through the sky of my mind, and I sit in a tiny corner in the sky, observing each of them. I should text him and take him back. I should tell him that we should have stayed together and ridden it out. I blow my breath, but no matter how fleeting the clouds are, they come back. Was I rotting? I imagined myself sifting through the dirt of Earth, letting mud sink under my nail beds, coiling my fingers around earthworms, allowing my body to fully rot. Perhaps it was not such a bad thing. 

I close my eyes and fall asleep, imagining myself carrying the Earth’s crust and mud in my body as I wilt in the sky, buoyed by clouds that never quite leave. 

~ 

On the fifth day, my mother rouses me, her rough hands jostling me awake. Her hands communicate what her words cannot. Enough. I have given you enough time. 

Reluctantly, I shuffle out of bed and meet my mother downstairs. 

Sit. It is a command. She pours me a glass of warm water and pushes a plate of persimmons before me. 

Eat. 

I don’t bother with any utensils. I use my fingers to scoop up the sliced persimmons, dropping them into my mouth. She purses her lips out of discontent but says nothing.  

I expect her to say something else, but it never comes. The two of us sit in silence, her watching me steadily as I scoop up the sliced persimmons unceremoniously. Juice dribbles from the corners of my mouth, and I don’t bother wiping it away. 

After I finish half of the fruit, I push the plate towards her. 

She stares at them, aghast, then harrumphs before she uses her fingers to grasp the plums.

Then plops them in her mouth. 

We sit there until there are no more persimmons left. 

~

I leave after a week, rolling my suitcase downstairs. My mother cleans it with her Clorox, this time a little less thoroughly. She knows it'll get dirty again, but it doesn’t stop her from trying anyways. 

I stand in the foyer until she’s done. She hands me a bag of persimmons, and I hug my mother tightly. Then she releases me, giving me a gentle shove out the door.  

I understand. 

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