生; sheng, life

By: Carlo Geniblazo

Foreword:

When I think of life, I think of 生. The Mandarin character for life does not only mean life. It means to be born, to grow, to strive for the future, the past, the present. It means to be pure yet dirty and raw at the same time, a balance. 

生: sheng, life

When I think of life, I think of 生 (sheng). 丽生 (lisheng) was your name, but I called you 生 (sheng) for short. I met you at 7-11, in an alleyway in the rain, reaching for the same umbrella. 

Taiwan was prone to typhoons, as I was prone to a torrent of loneliness. The first drop of warm island water splashed on my outstretched palms, and I thought of outrunning the storm. I sighed. How far would I make it before purple lightning cut the sky like jagged rainbows, illuminating my soaked dirtied shoes? Instead, I walked to that 7-11 that I knew would be in that dark alley, the shining neon green lighting my way. 

What were you thinking, I wonder, when your hand brushed mine in the quiet sanctuary of this constant plopping of rain? Somewhere in the world, in this oceanside town, somewhere nearby this dark alley overgrown with vegetation and rusting vents of air conditioners, were you in a similar situation? Maybe you tried to outrun the storm, only to end up here, the hidden corner of life. 

I pushed open the foggy stained glass door, setting my briefcase down and hanging my jacket before making my way past the cozy chairs and sizzling |油条; youtiao, chinese donut| to the cheap umbrellas by the corner. The heated air and faint smell of pungent soy-sauce tea eggs permeated from the other side of the room. I reached for the umbrella—around its handle, someone had tied a thin red string, already soaked dark from the rain. Your fingers touched mine over the knot.

“Yours?” I asked.

You looked at the string like you were seeing it for the first time. Then you smiled.

“Maybe yours,” you said.

I quickly pulled away. I tried to avoid you after that, but then your familiar amber eyes gazed at me accusingly at the soymilk station. And once again, as we both sat down by the window–but this time in curiosity as a downpour drowned the sounds of our soft movements. So we just sat in quiet comfort, drinking steaming hot soymilk and looking out, waiting for the rain to stop. You drank yours too soon, burned your tongue, and glared at the cup like it had betrayed you. I laughed before I could stop myself. For a moment, you looked offended. Then you laughed too. 

Outside, the rain kept tying and untying itself against the window.

Somewhere in that oceanside town, under the summer typhoon, I already knew the answer to the question I had only asked in my head. No, we weren’t the same. You were brimming with life, while I was only passing through it. I had wandered here, while you had somewhere to be. We were just two adults, playing kids for the brief time we had in this space together—away from everything. 

When the raindrops softened to a drizzle, you stood first. You locked eyes with me one last time with that sad smile, that familiar laugh, that amber, and then you were gone before I could even ask your name. 

I was left sitting there alone, sipping my soymilk as the storm cleared. Sunset rays the color of fire burned over puddles of water on uneven cracked asphalt, revealing faint, unreachable wisps of a day too long ago to hold. Wait. 

I should have grabbed the umbrella and never let go. 

生: sheng, raw

I laid down on the couch in my hoodie, eyes closing as I nodded my head to the nostalgic beat of Wave to Earth. Serene late nights like these were rare, and I hated them. They always seemed to bring back things that I chose to forget. In the background, beyond the traffic of San Francisco, beyond the noise of a couple arguing in Cantonese above, Agong slowly stirred ingredients into oxtail soup–a Taiwanese home specialty–quietly humming an old Chinese lullaby. It was just us, and our small grungy Chinatown apartment, but this was home.  

“|孩子; hai zi, child|, 我上厕所,” Agong wearily said, holding his back. “Get the oxtail ready.” 

“You always say that,” I complained. “But you never tell me how.”

He frowned. “I tell you every time. You never listen.”

“I listen.”

“You listen with lazy ears.” Okay. 

He hobbled off, eyes somewhere far away, still singing that sad song. I remembered that song. My mom used to sing it to me all the time. When was the last time I thought about her? When was the last time I dreamed? I hated days like these—where I remembered too much: alleyway running, steam rising, the usual.

“Hai zi! Tell your mom and dad thanks for always helping!” Potsticker Lady called out behind me. 

It was a normal day in Taiwan. The hot sticky summer air hung on to me and sweat dripped down my face as I ran down alley to alley in my neighborhood. I clutched Potsticker Lady’s 13 best golden crispy potstickers as I continued on through the pungent aroma-filled stalls of stinky tofu, past the cozy 7-11 that I called home half-the-time, and the dark alleyway overgrown with weeds, protected only by a stray cat. I kept running until I reached the familiar metal gate of our apartment. Past the courtyard–which was only a small patch of cobblestone and plants–I reached the top of the winding stairs, greeted with shoes piled neatly before the door on a rug, and a red 副 (fu) paper hanging for luck. 

To my surprise, Agong waited on the couch. He lived in a place called California and frequently visited out of the blue, so today was just a normal day. I set my potstickers down on the old wooden dragon engraved cabinet by the door and skipped over warm marble tiles to hug him. He hugged me close, patting his hand over my back in smooth, heavy movements.

“Where are Ma and Ba?” I asked.

A few moments passed.

"Are they buying something? Are they mad because I took long?”

He did that almost silent grunt that he did whenever he lost in mahjang and held me tighter. After a long silence, he spoke in his wise, temper-filled voice, but this time it was quieter.

“来,” he said.

“Where?”

“California.”

“Why?”

This time, Agong looked at me like something inside him had cracked.

He took my confused hand and led me back down the winding stairs, the potstickers forgotten in the apartment, still steaming. Purple lightning flashed like jagged rainbows as rain began to pour. Another typhoon. It was just a normal day in Taiwan.

The oxtail soup began boiling over the edge, and I yelped, quickly turning down the heat. As I began setting the dinner table and preparing bowls of white rice, I realized the oxtail wasn’t ready. 

“Agong,” I yelled across the house. “The oxtail 是生的; it's still raw!” I waited for him to come out and give me disapproving instructions—waiting for the usual, “this is so easy, why can’t you do?” A few seconds passed and the only thing I heard was the faint sound of San Francisco traffic and the couple still arguing in Cantonese above. 

“Agong?” I yelled again, setting down the ladle and walking over to his room. He was fast asleep, laying down with a smile on his face. He must be dreaming of something happy. I poked him to wake him up, but there was no movement. And he was cold. Wasn’t he always hot-tempered? And he wasn’t breathing. And I picked up my phone and called the hospital. And I sat by his bed, the back of my head leaning against the frame, my eyes shut, the faint sound of oxtail soup boiling over the rim, the smell of my favorite food drifting across the room. The arguing stopped upstairs, but traffic continued outside. It was just a normal day in San Francisco after all. I opened my eyes and stared through the open door that I had just come through, and gazed at the dim lights of our small Chinatown apartment. A single tear dropped down my face as I thought of the oxtail. It was still raw, and I didn’t know how to cook it. I should have asked Agong to teach me. Just like the potstickers, the soup was left steaming. Just like the oxtail soup, my heart was 生的; raw. 

生: sheng, growth

I was supposed to stop by your house afterwards—the same day I bought 13 potstickers for my parents

Your favorite food was oxtail soup, so you always took me to that corner store in the heart of town. The bustling chaotic old street, overwhelmed by the din of traffic of mopeds and taxis and noisy tobacco-smoking old men and vendors yelling fake sales––I hated it there. Far in the distance, the shiny lights of the big city rose above everything, making our hometown feel even smaller.

I always wanted to move to the city, but Ma and Ba always said no—something about money and jobs and more useless things—stranding me here in this oceanside town in the hidden corners of life. And you—you’d drag me to this crowded street, storming into the small stained-tiled oxtail soup shop and ordering a huge bowl of oxtail soup that neither of us could ever finish. 

“If you eat oxtail everyday,” you proclaimed pointing your chopstick at my face, “you’ll grow up to be a tall strong man!” I wasn’t convinced, teasing as you swallowed large chunks of meat that you’d become a man before me, even though you were just a small girl.

There was a 7-11 near my apartment that I called home, half-the-time—because that was where I met you. It was a rainy day in Taiwan. The summer season always seemed to bring typhoons. I ran to that 7-11 that I knew would be in that dark alleyway, a few blocks from home. I arrived, already soaking, but the neon green sign was turned off, and the doors locked. I banged on the misty glass doors— 呀！ —but there was no sign of life. There was no way it was closed right now. And then I heard footsteps behind me. I whirled around, and saw you, small, soaked, panting, hands on your knees as you seeked the same shelter as me. We met eyes–yours were a warm amber–and in the pouring rain, with no place to escape to, you waved your small hand at me. You said your name was 丽生 (li sheng), but I could call you 生 (sheng) for short. And I told you mine. You smiled at me, before taking my hand, pulling me through the rain. We splashed into large puddles, timing our jumps with every crescent arc of lightning. Through a blur of rain, alleyways, and laughter, you took me to your apartment, water dripping from our panting bodies onto the warm rug. Your mom immediately began scolding you, patting your hair and cheeks, before curiously asking about me. And you proudly announced that you had made a new best friend. Your mom dropped towels on our soaking heads and left steaming cups of fresh hot soymilk and we quietly sipped, exhaustion from our storm-running catching up. You drank yours too fast and spluttered everywhere, flinging scalding soymilk on my face. I looked at you in disbelief, and you laughed before you could stop yourself. That’s when a thought occurred to me: maybe typhoons could bring a torrent of happiness. 

One day, you had to move to Taipei; the big city; the metropolis on the horizon. It was pretty close, in the way everything was close in Taiwan, but I would have to take a car to get there. I was sure I could drive there myself, but I was also only eight. Ma and Ba said they could take me to see you on Sunday. 

That day, I sat on the wooden windowsill of your room, watching as you slowly finished packing the last of your things. A dog barked in the distance, cicadas sung in the summer heat, and a faint breeze passed by. Your suitcase had a red string tied around the handle. I noticed it before I noticed your face, before I noticed your mother calling from the taxi, before I could understand that you would be gone for good. I held onto the string between two fingers.

“You’ll lose it,” you said.

“I won’t.”

You laughed and swatted my hand. “我不相信你. I don’t believe you.”

But before you left, you closed my fingers around the string.

I helped you carry the suitcase to the taxi. The narrow asphalt road was timeworn by old rain and faded lines, uneven. I just stood there with the sprouting weeds at my feet as your mother loaded your things into the trunk, holding the red string so tightly it cut a line into my palm. I thought I was already a man, but I still stood there, unable to let go of your hand. Who would I be with every single day? 生，不要走。Your smile faltered. Then you hugged me one last time. 

“If you want to be a man,” you whispered, “ this is what growing up is like.”

Everyday, I visited that oxtail soup store. 丽生 (li sheng), for you, I would 生长; sheng zhang, grow up. 

Afterword:

丽生; li sheng, beautiful life

8.25.2026