Fantasia

“Tonight, I've finally learned to tell fantasy from reality. And, knowing the difference, I choose fantasy.”

Dad steps through the door two

hours late in a black suit, as if he is

still boss at work rambling about

recent advances in video encoding,

ladling pork and chives into a

bowl and spilling the rest on

the floor for Mom to mop up.

And Mom nodding as if she

is a master at video encoding

herself, all the while ruffling the

ends of her silky hair the same way

she does when I lie to her

about how many Chinese words

I memorized. At dinner, an

unrestricted barrage of

polarized Chinese curses, then

Mom begins closing all of the

window shutters at night, then

the displacement of Dad’s drinks

to the fridge’s lowest level and

darkest corner. Dad stumbles in

later and later like an atomic

clock, Mom orbiting around this

black hole thing, every inquiry

met with a gaze that reduces her

to obedient bones. How I wish

that this is no more than

stick figures playing tug-a-war

on my physics homework, that

I could find bliss in oblivion. But

no, with childlike curiosity I

capture the whole phenomenon

within my own frame of reference

and when Mom starts crying

and Dad starts madly throwing

tax papers in the air it is already

much too late.