visiting my mother

I went to my mother's house for lunch yesterday, as I do every Sunday. She lives in a modest two-bedroom townhouse in Coquitlam, shrouded by trees. She lives alone.

I always shiver when I enter her house, because she likes to keep all the windows open "for fresh air" when she cleans. She cleans the day before I come, but the chill lingers in the house like a ghostly net.

She uses energy efficient lightbulbs in many of the fixtures. When I flick on the switches, there is hardly any light. After about five minutes, the bulbs cast a harsh, white light that makes the house seem even colder.

My mother is always in a nervous frenzy. She flits about the kitchen, preparing vegetables and meats. Sometimes she gives me something to do, but most of the time I just sit at the dining room table, listening to her chatter. Mostly it's about what she's going to cook.

"I bought these mushrooms at T&T, on sale! I'm going to try making something special today," she says in Korean.

I nod, and look forward to the meal. It's always good. I will eat most of whatever is put in front of me, because I'm a good girl. After the meal, I wash the dishes dutifully and eat the fruit that my mom carefully peels and arranges on a plate. I'm a good girl.

Finally, the show is over. My mother drops me off at a nearby Skytrain station. I feel sadness and relief.

On the Skytrain I sit and watch the grey sky darkening overhead and the neat rows of houses below. I wonder how many others, at that precise moment, are also escaping.