As ours is the
only Chinese restaurant in town,
Its chef, my
father, is famous throughout.
With the sound
of chattering school children,
The screaming
phones, groaning boilers,
And clattering
utensils echoing in the kitchen,
While voiceless
customers pamper in the fragrance
Of Chicken with
Broccoli and General Tso Chicken.
Between the
kitchen and front counter,
My sister and I
sprint like the wind,
As my mother
transforms blank-white boxes
Into finished
brown packages.
Pushing past
each other,
The members of
my family fight against time,
But my
nine-year-old brother
Deep in his
rectangular bed under the front counter,
Dreams of a time
when my family circles around the dinner table,
Lounging for
hours around the eagerly awaited delicacies of Chinese New Year.