Tag Archives: Zoe Yuan

Sticky Rice Balls by Zoe Yuan

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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

Jacaranda Season by Zoe Yuan

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I was five
When my grandmother took me on a walk
During jacaranda season.
Soft lavender snow drifted across the path,
Like a purple carpet.

We sat under a tree,
Its branches formed a violet shelter,
The musky, honey-like fragrance of the blossoms enveloped
My grandma’s laughter, as I showed her
How to make a kebab of jacarandas on a stick.

Then she patted my head,
But her ebony black eyes serious, tender
Around the edges, when she looked at me.
“Be a good daughter.”

I just nodded, hoping I’d understand
Someday,
When I’m taller.
I went back to add more flowers
On my stick.

Each spring,
The jacarandas return,
I look to them.
My grandma’s words land on my shoulder,
Like the purple petals.

Each Facetime call ends the same way,
Never goodbye,
Just
“Be a good daughter.”

Each year I thought I knew what it meant.
Be obedient, be quiet, be good.

And each year, I swatted it away,
Like an annoying, persistent fly.
Because I thought it meant giving myself up,
Giving my voice up,
To be someone else.

Last spring,
My mum told me she needed surgery.
She asked when we should return to China,
Summer holidays in December,
Or April break.

The April break was warmer and shorter,
I didn’t want to give up summer.
I didn’t want to stay inside,
Watching snowstorms rage outside the window.
When I asked her,
“How long will you take to recover?”
“I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me.” She smiled.
But I saw the dark rings under her eyes,

Her pale skin.
How even the shine in her hair looked dull.

My answer pressed on the tip of my tongue,
But I swallowed it.
“Let’s go back in December. It’s been a long time
Since I built a snowman.” I decided.

But I chose December,
Because I knew she needed time to recover,
Because I knew her health was important,
More important than my summer.

The next morning,
I nearly walked into a spider’s web,
Morning dew hung from her trap,
Like jewels, glistening in the sun.
But that’s when I realised the small, violet bud,
Peeking shyly from under a leaf.

“Be a good daughter.” I hear my grandmother say.
Maybe it’s finally time to understand
That it’s about choosing love,
Even through sacrifice.

Not giving up your voice,
But learning how to use it.
Not giving up who you are,
But learning to consider others.

The jacarandas are blooming again.

Photo from Pexels by Alexander F Ungerer