of memory noah yang

Each period of my life is remembered

in a different tint. My childhood living with grandma in Wuhan is a dusty green. The tall tree pushed inside our apartment when I opened the window, and shook leaves and bugs alike onto the floor. Grandma would sigh her deepest sigh, and double-step to undo the damage. Staying with my mom and dad in Shenzhen is a deep orange. The AC whistles cold air and spits droplets of condensation on my page of math. I liked to pretend the AC was crying with me in frustration at long division, our tears merging on the page. Changing countries to Canada is a golden yellow. I opened my thermos to find my stinky lunch, feeling jealous of kids who brought pizza, sandwiches, or juice boxes. Shame was often there — for looking different, sounding different, and smelling different. Living in a student house in Hamilton is a moldy caramel. I cleaned solidified droplets of grease at the bottom of kitchen cabinets and sorted out the congested garbage. That leads us to now, transparent and HD. Each moment turning into memories, and becoming a part of who I am. x

Of Memory

WORDS by NOAH YANG