Coins
by Mark Talacko
I rose early to the cool dawn light and the voice from the loudspeakers. School would start again, but not today. Today I was free to run headlong at my future.
I sprang from the kang and pulled on my cotton padded pants and jacket, slipped on my cloth shoes and threw back the curtain that separated our sleeping quarters from the rest of the space that we called home.
My mother ladled out rice porridge with chunks of taro into a cracked bowl and set down a cold, hard boiled egg on the table my father had built from discarded wooden crates.
She told me that was all we had and gave a wistful smile.
But tomorrow we might have pork, she announced with fleeting vigour and gathered up the dishes her and my father had used. She said this every morning, like a prayer and put the dishes in the blackened and dented pot to take them outside to wash.
I bolted down my breakfast and ran for the door just as my father was coming in. His leathery hands halted my forward progress momentarily.
Whoah. Where are you speeding off to? Don’t you have school to prepare for? They’re starting classes again soon, he said looking me up and down like he didn’t really recognize me.
I know. I know, but I have to go. There’s going to be some rennao down by the river today. I’ll prepare tomorrow.
I heard about that.
He seemed to be weighing something in his mind. His eyes took on the same look they did when he told me stories from his youth.
Yes. You should go see what it’s all about. Wouldn’t want to miss it. No. Not a young man. Continue reading…
