When I was a little girl, I followed Ah Ma like a shadow. Go away, she yelled, you’re blocking the sun when I pulled on her sleeve. Her hair was a canopy of black sky with silver stars. I grabbed onto one end. Ah Ma shook me off like an annoying gnat. In the process, I snatched a few strands of her hair I taped on my head. It wasn’t enough. I asked for her skin. She said, I could never have her beautiful peachy skin. I scratched her face, glued her cells onto mine. You’re a monster, she said. She chased me with a broom, screaming, you have nothing of mine! She pulled a mail-order catalogue, and waved it in front of me, see this page here, I could order a perfect daughter if I wanted to! On the glossy sheet, a porcelain Chinese doll for a $100 that looked like a glittery machine with her traditional gold and silver embroidered qi pao, motorized noodle arms and legs. I finally understood. I grabbed a screwdriver from Ba’s toolbox, and rushed after Ah Ma, yelping, let me open your chest and check your heart! We ran in loops until we lost our breath, our head, our mind, until our parts couldn’t be nailed back together.
