DUMPLINGS

By Willow Yao  

 

Grandpa is a sculptor.  

His tan, rough hands  

Mold, twist, and coax  

The soft, formless dough,  

Creating perfect pleats  

Until the dough transforms  

Into an intricate crescent moon. 

 

He adds his latest creation 

To the tray of dumplings. 

Plump from meaty filling,  

They stand tall and strong,  

Sculpted by hands 

With decades of wisdom. 

 

“Wei, ni yie zhuo yi ge.”  

His words are indecipherable to me, 

A jumbled mixture of sounds. 

 

He places dough in my chubby hands, 

Motions for me to add filling. 

“Willow, try making one.” 

 

I clumsily mimic his movements, 

Bend, squeeze, and pinch the dough,  

But it becomes a lumpy  

Misshapen mess. 

 

Grandpa looks at my dumpling  

And laughs. 

Hearty, booming chuckles fill the room. 

He guides my hands,  

Remodeling the dough  

Until gradually  

It takes shape.

 

He drops the dumplings into the boiling water. 

They emerge, 

Hot steam curling in the air,  

And we voraciously feast, 

Savoring the tangy filling  

That tastes of unspoken words 

Pressed deeply into the dough.

 

 

 Willow’s Bio: 

I’m currently planning to major in Psychology and Information Technology and Informatics. My parents are originally from China and immigrated to the United States. They met during college, and we having been living in New Jersey ever since.