Opung

Opung used to give strange kisses. She’d fold her lips inside, and lean against your cheek, then

breathe in—one quick intake of air. As if she were smelling you.

When we’d come back from our trip to the village, my mother would kiss me like opung and

we’d laugh about it.

❃

The words mourning and validating feel interchangeable sometimes.

❃

I don’t want to sound bitter. Bitter tastes like rotting banana skins. I want to sound sweet. I want

to sound like strawberries.

❃

We called them both opung and sometimes this caused a little confusion whenever we’d refer to

them.

“How’s opung?”

“She’s doing well.”

“No, daddy, the other opung.”

A giggle.

❃

They are a wound. This one is bleeding me.