growing up, me and mẹ only ever spoke on one day: sundays.
on the drive home from church, we would go to the sam's club 5 minutes away from our abode.
we would feast.
leading up to the day,
mẹ always had a clouded look in her eyes.
maybe it’s just my memory, but she never quite looked like my mom.
she only ever looked exhausted.
the drive to church was always quiet.
mẹ and ba refused to even look at each other, as our family of 5 was cramped into a small white car.
i still remember counting the amount of clouds in the sky, hoping, one day, the number would be enough to break the silence.
ba would drop us off at sam's club, rarely ever coming inside.
our adventure began by admiring the outside of the store for just a bit, appreciating the exterior.
the blue and white building glared back at us, looking for any red; there never was any.
pushing through the doors, we always had to help mẹ.
she would ask chị to push the cart as me and she marched through the store.
suddenly, it became our territory; it became home.
we would jump from station to station, gawking at the assortment of food they had.
“gia hon! ở đây! ở đây!” come here, come here
stuffing our mouths with the greasy spreads of samples, our tummies filling.
mẹ was always careful to make sure we bought something, even if our money didn’t come in a red color.
some days, it was a random item she saw on sale. other days, it was an essential that our small apartment had gone a month without.
the items, though, were always small compared to the cart.
even as we went through the long checkouts of me and chị acting as translators, i could never find it in myself to complain.
i would look into my eyes and the fog was gone.
she still didn’t look like my mom, though, more like me; like a child.
sam’s club sundays were me and my mother’s playground.
once we left, the childish wonder did too.
i held her hand tighter as my father’s white car pulled up.
Editors: Alisha B., Blenda Y.
Image source: Nikita Chetyrin, Unsplash