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The cocoons glowed like pebbled moons. A stray moth brushed Grace Chan’s cheek, flying toward the single lamp above her head. Normally the silkworm nursery was filled with chatter and laughter as she and her grandmother, Nai Nai, laid out fresh mulberry leaves for the worms. But tonight, Grace only heard the moths’ flapping wings and New York City’s cicadas through the nursery walls.
It’d been a month since Grace placed Nai Nai’s urn next to her grandfather’s, mother’s, and father’s urns on the family altar. Every day, after Grace flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED and locked the restaurant door, she made sure to serve one last meal. She placed sesame oil dandelion salad in front of the altar photo of Mama, pickled chicken of the woods for Baba, and of course, any leftover... Read more
