My mother does not apologize with her words.

My mother does not apologize with her words.

She takes fruit from the bottom drawer of our fridge. Sometimes juicy green kiwis. Maybe even plump peaches. But usually crunchy golden cham-weh.

Dirtied peels, she rids the Korean melon of its skin. (Stripping away layers of anger, she soothes fresh wounds from recent arguments.)

Cutting into flesh, she brandishes her knife and with every division, comes reflection. (Sharp words that had sliced into skin earlier smoothed away on the cutting board.)

Brushing off tiny slimy seeds, my mother expresses her guilt in the cleanliness of each bit.

With soft steps, beautifully plated fruit finds its way to my desk. Her hand lingers on my shoulder; silent words only I can hear. Every bite whispers, I love you.

By Kathryn Kwon