HALF FORGOTTEN HALF FORGOTTEN<P>Muted conversations hold her stories, stories that divide us<BR>by generations; like the lines created by water and oil when it drips<BR>down her white powdered palm. Nai nai  tells me these stories until
I am old enough to understand, but I still go to sleep, sweating,
trying to ward off the timeless heat. But come New Years’ again<P>and nai nai’s myths still haunt me<BR>like a half-forgotten nightmare.<P>Come New Years’ and  nai nai  sits with calloused fingers <BR>dipped in murky water, shaping dough into crescent moons.<BR>She gives me pieces of her past, pieces laid on the blue China:
of when the night was raw and the air was cold, of when
ration cards gave her nothing but thin lips, pale with frost,
and empty hands. Her voice grows quiet as she dips her fingers
back in the bowl, the oil dissembling slowly in the water.<P>Jinghuizi (Jing) He '21<BR>2019 Scholastic Art Writing Award<BR>Gold Key Distinction
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