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The Asian Supermarket

Updated: Apr 2

i grew up

between aisles of jackfruit and rambutan,

yan-yan and pocky,

soft dried fruits and fruity hard candies i couldn’t name,

toddler-sized bags of rice and boxes of udon;

drinking in the smells and sights of the bakery’s

impossibly smooth and colorful cakes and puddings;

and on the other side of the store,

watching the fish and shellfish

pile on top of one another in their tanks;

hearing tongues and seeing faces in the background

that reminded me of family

and became synonymous with “home.”

i’ve moved between four different states

in the past year alone,

and every time I’m somewhere new,

i look for the same thing:

the asian supermarket.

if i am a boat,

that is my lighthouse.

every familiar food

and familiar accent

signaling to me

that the dock is open to me here;

that something here might feel like home;

that if i pull into shore,

i won’t be alone.

i know my father

would never understand this feeling.

i know he will never understand