Stories of a Long Goodbye

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Since she died, I often sit where she once tenderly nurtured our garden. It was her Eden. Spring onions neatly framed its edges, while cherry tomatoes and cucumbers burst from its heart. With soil-smudged fingers and wind-tousled hair, she breathed life into earth. Peeking out the window, I regularly spotted her silhouette, poised in quiet battle against perennial weeds or nursing a frail seedling back to strength. Curled up on the couch, I would watch her through the curtains narrow gap, soaking in the tranquility that draped around her. A double tap on the glass would meet with our eyes linking in mutual understanding. When I joined her, playful protests soon gave way to laughter and shared tasks. "Aiya, watch your step!" she'd chide, only to softly beckon moments later, "Come, help me water the cucumbers." As her life's candle flickered, her affection for the garden, much like her love for life and me, never waned. She tended to each plant with a soft, enduring love, nurturing life

Stories of a Long Goodbye JASON ZHU Back to Letters Stories of a Long Goodbye January 1st, 2024 Work About CV Stories of a Long Goodbye Waiting to unfold in each seed my mom planted was a lesson. ‍ Since she died, I often find myself sitting where she once tenderly nurtured our garden. There was a time when spring onions neatly framed its edges. Cherry tomatoes and cucumbers used to burst from its heart. This was her space. She worked tirelessly to transform an uninspiring patch of New Jersey grass into something alive. With soil-smudged fingers and wind-tousled hair, she breathed life into ea

Stories of a Long Goodbye

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