This poem was written by Marie Hua, winner of the 2026 Artistic Narrative section in the 2026 Humanities Center Tell Your Story Contest.
Tonight, my Nǎinai makes wontons:
ground pork
bok choy
xiāmǐ
thumbs up!
chop to mix,
hǎo hǎo hǎo…
We wrap them
like small talk;
like how on the way to buy pí
Gūgu says
Yéye did
“secret things” and
I nod
And “secret things,” Ian says,
means fixing
pipes for
the people
making bombs
And Nǎinai was a nurse on base,
giving out
cough drops
in cold season
I imagine.
Now, it is she and I alone;
only small words
to share
between us
Still we
wrap, boil,
scoop, share
one plate of wontons together
She hands me another plate and
when it’s gone:
One more?
“xièxiè–
hăochī”
She gives me a thumbs up to say,
Anytime
then washes
her hands
and I,
I am about to say, “Wait—” but,
“Goodnight—”
slips out
instead
She looks at me mildly.
“Oh… um—”
I wave.
She laughs,
walks away,
and
disappears—
down
the
hall
