I was sitting alone in the mall
carefully eating rice and vinegared vegetables
with hot strips of teriyaki meat.
Using chopsticks requires much concentration
and a strong sense of apathy
for how little of the food
makes it from the bowl to my mouth.
Sitting alone in the mall
staring at my fingers
willing them to work better
wondering
what I am doing wrong.
My sister uses chopsticks well
and I never understood why
because she speaks a few words of French
and I studied Chinese for three years
carefully pronouncing sounds, over and over, to make words
carefully drawing lines over and over to make sentences.
When I was learning to write, I held my pencil with two fingers on top, instead of one.
My teachers and parents used to watch
and say something bad would happen.
I was so small, and the situation sounded so dire
but I couldn't figure what was I doing wrong.
Sitting alone in the mall, practicing with chopsticks
almost as a meditation
I move my fingers up and down one at a time,
practicing the movements: 1, 2, 1, 2, up, down, up, down.
Open, close. Open. Close.
And I saw it then; I was holding one chopstick just as I held my pencil as a child.
