By Jeffrey Paolano
The porcelain vessel brimming with rice has stood in the corner all Lin’s life. Always some remains when the new harvest comes in.
Yesterday, little rice remained. The new harvest is a month off.
Lin gathers up a bowl and knife and goes into the morning air. Stepping gingerly through the rice stalks, she reaches the crook in the dike where the water lettuce grows.
She cuts the greens, calculating how much of the bitter herb mixed into the rice her family can tolerate against how hungry they will be once the rice is gone. Lin’s hands quaver as tears fall.
Good one, Jeffrey. Especially liked the last line.