Winter melon aches

Gripping the butcher knife tightly, I slid it down the tough skin of the prickly greenness. Two inches, my mom said, just two inches. Each time the knife sunk down, a numbing ache grows on my wrist.  As the blade sunk down on the roughness, I imagined the piles of green winter melon peals patched all over my face, its tiny hair pricking my fingers and reminding me of my nature.

I gathered the winter gourd pieces and dropped them into the pot, joining the sea of red beans sleeping on the abyssal floor of chicken soup. Turning the stove knob valve to high, I watched the winter melon chunks float up in the red sea silently…

Dazed, I left the stove and sink and entered the echoes…

The scrub rubbed the grey stains on the tub back and forth. An aroma of winter melon, red beans, and chicken soup filled the tiled room, mixing with the remnant mango body wash scent on my arms and the fading scent of Lysol. The steam rushed over my nostrils as I opened the bathroom sliding door. The coolness left me for a second. The dull ache on my wrist ached for something more.

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