What is a grain of rice to you? What is its worth?

In the afternoons supper may be a little lonely. My brothers will be doing their own thing- homework or gaming. My grandparents are old and kind; they no longer have big appetites and believe the food should go to the growing children.

I sit at the table with sun spilling orange though the shutters. It's quiet and surreal. Gentle snores and excited conversations reverberate through the air.

Sometimes I become tired of the routine and question why everything's as it is as I go through my meal. When I've had my fill, I want throw away the rest, but I stop when many tales resurface to my mind. I stop because I hear my mother’s lectures. She taught me that those precious white grains are a blessing from the blue sky, the earth, and the rough labor from hands of farmers on the rice paddies hunched over the fields.

Those stories are eloquently retold by my tired worn out mother on nights where I feel like a child again or when I can’t sleep.  Soft sheets gather moon light like how the leaves drink morning dew. She tells me quietly while stroking my hair of the past intricate magic of her birth place, Vietnam.

The doors of each house were open and welcome. People gathered wood to light their oven.The smells of the fresh seafood and buttery calf meat grilling wafted into the air pedestrians breathed. Young children sold lottery tickets for a living and vendors sold different food items from fish sauce to fruit to sweet desserts. They sold anything and everything.

My mother as a child was fatherless until she was seven. My grandpa came back from the war then. My grandmother raised her, my aunt, and my uncle as a single mother. My mother recalled days where they ate until their stomachs were permeated with delicious ‘expensive’ foods and others where hunger was grasping her appetite tightly it hurt. My grandmother’s philosophy is to embrace your meals. You never knew when your next could come. Grandma was and still is not good with money. She cannot manage currency. She spends it very easily and would still smile even if she were broke with not a single coin in her pockets. Back then she couldn’t save either, not with three kids begging for something to fill their bellies. They were young and didn’t see that their mother was eating their leftovers. She would say, “Don’t worry about me! I’ve already eaten, but don’t throw that away that’s still good.”

My mother said she liked living like that better than when her dad came back. My grandpa was a very sensible person and saved the meager incomes the couple made from working odd jobs and such. My mother said they had something gobble down, but it was not appealing to their mouths. Rice was precious and she hated potatoes. They ate wild potatoes growing in their yard and mixed it with the unsubstantial amount of rice.

Now, my mother and father work diligently to provide for our family. My mom’s hands develops red rashes and they don’t heal well. My dad’s foreheads begins to look like a crumpled paper with the number of crinkles. I wish I could erase their dark circles and worries, but with each step I take further into the future is another burden on their back. As my siblings and I grow, we need more and more necessities.

So when the sun has retired for the night and gave it’s kiss to its parent the sky -its siblings and other half light up the arching heavens above- I know I’ll be able to see my own parents. They give weary smiles and beautiful ringing laughter. There are discordant voices ordering each other around to get some utensils or asking one another to join dinner. Golden steaming rice is served along with creamy fish and a forest green soup.

I taste tears, love, magic and home within every grain of rice that not only fill my tummy, but my heart. Everyday I eat with a happiness that can only be contained in each fleeting moment.