My mother speaks of how she was born
on an island, where a father grew a family of
seven from one single tangerine tree
purchased from a local trader. How he saved
for a plot of land & the tangerines were good―
so good. My mother speaks of how a mother
would travel back to Seoul alone to buy
sugar—heaps of sugar in clumpy bags—bring
it back to package them with ribbons &
rippling clear cello to the people on the island
who didn’t know it was possible to cross the
ocean. How these tangerine trees and bags of
sugar birthed a brick-lined mansion,
chauffeurs, & gift boxe s of echoing Korean
pears to each of her & her sibling’s classrooms.
A whole heavy box for every teacher. As I
frown and complain that these pears even from
Jersey aren’t sweet, she tells me to be thankful
& that if I can’t shave the skin off these pears I
will never get married. Be grateful that I get to
pick this fruit. Grateful that we received a
shipping box full of bruised tangerines that still
grew on the island when they were still alive to
remind us of work. How I used scrunch my
nose at the furry bruised skin & marvel when
peeled, inside was plump fruit, tasting like all
the sugar & sweat carried across the ocean until
everyone was satisfied.
Tangerine Trees & Little Bags of Sugar
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