May Big Brown Box and
the
nonfiction by Ben Zhou
“She must’ve missed me,” I thought as she lay in the big brown box. Before we moved from Beijing to Canada, my parents and I visited May almost every holiday. She greeted us in front of her house with her brightest smile––the kind that made me feel safe and loved. We hugged before she rushed us to the table, and then May brought out the best homemade dumplings in all of Beijing. There was always laughter at May’s place. Everyone loved her, even my sister, who didn’t understand a single word of her accent. In the summer of 2010, May was not there to greet us. She was not there to invite us in and give us hugs. Mom clung to Dad’s arm. 34
The Talon 2022
Something felt off, but as a simple-minded kid, shooting elastic bands seemed more worthwhile than figuring out the complications of adulthood. Then we were in the car, and I fell asleep to the rhythmic sound of our wheels bumping against the road. I am not sure how long I slept, but when I woke up, we were no longer in the city. Dad hurried me out of the car. A large group of people quietly entered a dimly lit tunnel. We followed the crowd closely behind. It was beautiful. Small, white candles stood uniformly along the walls, and between them were paintings of May in black and
white. “There!” I shouted, pointing at a picture of us with her. Mom shushed me. Her eyes brimmed with tears. We entered a spacious, round room with a glass roof. In the center lay a big brown box. Flowers were neatly placed around it one by one. I jumped up to see inside; it was May. Her eyes were shut. She looked peaceful with a soft smile. I wanted to get a better look, but the adults were bigger, and they pushed me aside. Two big men placed their hands on my shoulders as the funeral procession began. A man be-