Nine moments in a city I haven't seen since I was eight.
The trip. Twenty years since Jan was last here. The city she remembers is overlaid on the city that exists now. Her grandmother's apartment is still there, kept by Mom, with the empty bird cage still on the balcony. The dumpling shop is the same — run by the son now. The river at dusk is exactly the same. Mom is smaller than Jan remembered.
The plane banks for descent, and there it is.
The river first. The bridge after. The lights I haven't seen since I was eight—a phrase I've repeated so often it stopped meaning anything. Until right now, pressed against the window, the meaning back. The man next to me is asleep. The flight attendant hands me the landing card. I fill it out. My handwriting looks different in this light. The wheels touch down. I don't cry, yet. I am saving it.
Mom is smaller.
I knew this. I forgot the specific kind of smaller. Dyed hair. The same jacket I remember from a video call three years ago. The hug is the kind we do—quick, tight, two pats on the shoulder, immediate pivot to logistics. Asks if I'm hungry. I am. She's already arranged for us to eat. I knew she would. She takes my suitcase like she's doing me a favor. She is. It's heavier than I packed it. I packed it badly, on purpose, so she could do this.
The cab passes three buildings I don't recognize.
A subway sign I don't understand. A McDonald's I think I remember, turned into something else, a name I can't read. The new towers rise from the highway like they've always been there. They haven't. They've been there approximately the duration of my late twenties. The city doing what cities do while I wasn't looking. Mom says, "You look. It's different now." I look. I look. I look.
The bird cage is still on the balcony.
The bird is, of course, not in it. Hasn't been since I was ten, when my grandmother told me on a video call he'd passed. The cage still hangs from the same hook. Dusty. Not coming down. Mom keeps it there because she keeps things where they were. I touch the cage with one finger. It swings, slightly. The balcony is the same. The grandmother is not on the balcony.
The dumpling shop is in the same building.
The grandfather who ran it when I was eight has retired. His son runs it now. Somehow, the exact age the father was. He recognizes my mom. He doesn't recognize me. Why would he. He brings out the dumplings. I take a bite. Exactly correct. Identical to the bite I had at six and seven and eight. I look at my mom. She's already looking at me. We don't say anything. We don't need to. The dumpling is the answer.
Sleeping in the room.
The room I slept in those summers. The bed I slept in those summers. Too short. The bookshelf still has a small dictionary I don't remember acquiring. A framed photo of me at six, holding a goldfish in a plastic bag, on the dresser. I take it down. Put it back. I lie on the too-short bed. My feet hit the wood at the end. The ceiling is the same ceiling I looked at when I was eight. Twenty years older, and approximately the same length.
Stood on the bridge at dusk.
Held my phone. Didn't take a picture. The photo my cousin sent in 2022 is the one I've looked at a thousand times. The view in front of me right now is the photo. But wider, louder, warmer. A man fishing two bridges down. The air smells like something my body recognizes before my brain does. The river is still there. The light is still there. I am still here.
Doing dishes.
She washes, I dry. We haven't had the big conversation since I arrived. Probably won't. The big conversation is happening at the sink. She does the small extra circular wipe at the end. I dry the plate. She does it again. I dry. Again. I almost laugh. She glances at me. Knows. Doesn't say anything. Teaching me a thing she already taught me when I was eight, four, a baby. We are doing it together. This is, I think, the conversation.
The morning I leave, she keeps coming into the room.
This time, putting Hangzhou into the suitcase. Dried mushrooms. A small jar of pickled vegetables she made herself. A charger she still doesn't trust the airport to sell. A red envelope. A photograph in a wooden frame: my grandmother holding me at three. Suitcase is too full. I take things out; she puts them back. We do this until the cab comes. At the door, she pats my shoulder. Twice. Says nothing. She hasn't gotten better at goodbyes. She has gotten better at everything else.