The Meadow Annual Literary Arts Journal 2018

a confusing moment of joy and sadness. I can’t wait to arrive in America and live with Paul, but I can’t bear to leave Malaysia. The magenta sky above the rambutan trees is turning dark as we drive slowly home. I open the car window to breathe in the scent of jasmine and savor our last night in Johor Bahru. Tala pulls her sweater closed around her shoulders. “Paul never would have left had you insisted that he stay.” I am tired and will not argue. This is a topic I’ve heard many times before: he never should have gone; I’d been weak; I should have called him home years ago; his place is here; a son belongs with his family. I hold my silence. What is there for me to say? If I’d insisted Paul return home after he dropped out of the medical program, he might have worked his way into an honorary engineering position here, as I had. But would I have wanted that for him? Would Tala? He wouldn’t have listened to us anyway. Customs are no longer followed by our youth. Especially after they’ve lived in the West. The hollow ache in my leg spirals up to my knee as we arrive home, and I slowly get out of the car. The casuarina trees shimmer in the moonlight. The scent of coriander rises from the herb garden in the cooling breeze. Tala heads to her garden and lingers, pressing a Moon Orchid to her forehead, as if the silken petals have the power to bring our son to us. “The gardener will care for these in exchange for divisions,” she says. Tala started her garden the year Paul left to study in America. She began by setting out the Moon Orchids to grow in coconut husks and has added new varieties every year. She looks up and sees me watching. “Promise me, Joseph,” she says. “Promise me that you will bring me back to my orchids.” Promises are made to keep hope alive, and these plants have climbed and evolved to survive on air, rotting leaves, and what sun they can absorb. But cultivated, they thrive as terrestrials. 146 The Meadow

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