Peace Offering

By Elizabeth Wee

Grandmother scoops white rice, clumping
like paste, onto porcelain plates.
I ferry each one to its rightful place.
From the kitchen, my mother lifts
steamed fish into a glass platter.

We sit cross-legged, seat cushions worn faceless
from excitement, the fish laid bare
before us like a peace offering. Yet
the skin’s sheen laces the air with incense.

Translucent bones slip through my teeth, scattering
across my plate like silver minnows
or the charcoal pencil shavings
lining the edges of my mother’s desk.
I savor the hush of sesame and bloom
of ginger with each careful spoonful.

Across the table, my mother separates
bone from flesh with her teeth, slivers cracking
under pressure. She glances at my plate
still heavy with rice, her gaze threaded
with a quiet reminder: Take less. Leave no trace.

That night in her studio, I watch her shade
the fur of our neighbor’s dog – each stroke
neat and deliberate, curling the edges
of her pages inward. Her gaze sharpens
in the waning light, mine smudging
as I sit beside her. Until graphite
swirls under my fingers.

A small smile rises, unfolding. She wraps
her hand over mine, guiding practice into creation.