(Aphelion: a point in the orbit of a celestial object most distant from its sun)

We begin again. With our fingers sliding underneath the round glass turntable, pushing it counterclockwise, we take turns pouring ourselves cups of chrysanthemum tea. My father’s best friend speaks Mandarin to the Cantonese trolley lady as she stamps our card accordingly. We sit silently next to him. 

We empty the contents of bamboo steamers with plastic red chopsticks; each of us taking turns plucking out dumplings, fried rice, or bok choy. The lazy Susan continues rotating, fueled by an anonymous hunger. 

Oh, were those sweet pork buns? Reaching out to stop the orbiting dishes with the dip in my palm, the gaze of my family falls on me. Let it pass, their eyes demand, darting between my outstretched arm and the wobbling parcels of sticky rice. Let it pass. Fluffy clouds of caramelized meat drift away from me, suddenly out of reach. They move to the other side of the rounded table and at their aphelion¹, the furthest away from me, they disappear onto porcelain plates engraved with blue carp. When the crate that held them returns, I peek through the holed parchment paper that lines its wooden base, looking for remnants of cumulus in the condensation of steam. Gone.

We leave the Yum Cha restaurant, stomping down a vandalized escalator and into the sharp air of a Parisian morning. It cuts my tongue as we wait to say goodbye to friends, our cold bodies surrounded by packets of fresh bean sprouts and boxes covered in jade necklaces. Returning home, my mother tells me I lack conviction in life. Her words pass me by; I know that they’ll circle back to me eventually. But first, they must be pushed out into the furthest corner of dark space, out of sight.

A month later, we begin again.