I sit by myself.
Two sweet rice balls bob around in my bowl
White and round like pearls.
I look around, our kitchen has never felt huger,
Bookshelves tower over me.
Picking up my spoon, I eat my rice ball.
The earthy sweetness of
Black sesame coats my tongue, as it oozes out of the rice ball
Like an open wound.
I put my hand on my heart.
I imagine two seats empty at the family table,
Where every family member gathers to eat
Their New Year’s rice balls.
Together, at the round table, where the rice balls will
Symbolise family unity and strength.
I hear my grandmother toasting to another year,
To everyone’s health and fortune,
And then offering more sweet rice balls to the children.
I see my baby cousin’s face attempting to eat red bean paste with a spoon,
But missing his mouth completely.
I feel a warm bubbly sensation,
Despite the icy snowstorm outside the window.
I hear laughter worth more than diamonds,
I see memories kissed with the purest gold.
Mum says we shouldn’t go back on
Chinese New Year, because the weather is cold.
But as I finish my last rice ball, I see no relatives,
I hear no toasts.
Even though I see the harsh Australian sun
Beating down on our garden.
I feel colder than in any winter.
My grandma always saved me the black sesame.
Photo from Pexels by zhang kaiyv
Australian Children’s Poetry 