Tai Tai

A memory piece exploring my grandmother's memorial.

I remember a phoenix, composed of glittering red, ivory, and gold pieces of tile. She was battered with ice encrusted rain, and stretched her wings out in a scream. I watched diamond crystals form upon her feathers. My boots, squeaking and yellow, were drug with purpose across her image. The brightly plumed bird’s colleagues surrounded her. Tiger was to the north, Monkey was to the south. Boar and Snake were at her flanks, though I couldn’t see them. Dark shoes garrisoned most of the ceramic from my view.

Underneath my umbrella, all things were bathed in gilded light. I looked up through the translucent shield to see the printed face of a panda. It had little fabric ears which flapped in the frosty wind. The lapels of my yellow raincoat swayed underneath the protection of my mighty bear.

I peered through the black trenches at a platform. Gentle, subdued vibrations of sound caressed their audience and soothed weeping children. My mother placed her hand on my rubber hat. It quivered.

Salt suddenly burnt my nostrils. Weeds gathered on the shore brought birds to bicker over brunch.

The phoenix below me cracked as I pressed my feet into her icy recesses.