365 Days (Part 1) | ✓

72. Where That Place Used to Be

72. Where That Place Used to Be: Think of a place you went to when you were younger but it now no longer there or is something else. Capture your feelings about this in your writing.

Childhood. That fickle part of time where understanding isn't necessary. For all people, childhood is distorted in  their memories. The passage of years distorts and wrinkles the clarity of remembrances. I remember my earliest years in bits. Impressions are more prominent than facts: the earthy scent of pecan dust on my grandfather, the feel of the rough fur on my dog, and the taste of Mom's spahgetti. Brief, blurry visions remain of what was. Sometimes I look at something a certain way, and in my mind a connection is made between that angle and a nearly forgotten memory. I recall sitting at the coffee table, with Shirley sitting on the ground beside me, coloring in my coloring books. Shirley was our foreign exchange student -- after adopting me from China, my parents went on a bit of a Chinese craze and decided to keep an exchange student from there. That was when I was three, and although it is the earliest memory I have been able to definitely pinpoint in the timeline of of me life, I wonder if there are other, earlier things not given a date that are stored within my brain.

Chinese food was a staple in our family. It had nothing whatsoever to do with me being Chinese -- we just liked it. There was a restaurant we went to downtown that was as essential to my childhood as I am. It was a buffet -- and anyone who is aware of my preoccupation with eating knows that I love buffets. A brilliant idea, they are. God bless the man who invented them.

China Gate was owned by a Chinese man named Sean. My parents first took me there just after I first came to America. Back then, I spoke baby babble -- but it was Chinese baby babble. They just went for the food. They had no idea they would form a relationship with anyone there.

Sean's mom was the cashier, and I still see her now: short, wrinkled, eyes bright and always smiling. She had a heavy accent, whereas Sean didn't. Both spoke English, but Sean was much more intelligible. When my parents first brought me there, they explained that I was their newly adopted daughter, fresh from China. Sean's mother spoke to me in her native tongue, and much to everyone's surprise, I started to jabber back to her. I understood what she was saying!

It's difficult to explain how babies talk at eighteen months old. It's not anything like how they are supposed to talk... but anyone who is around them enough somewhat understands what they mean. My niece Charlotte would say "Baba" and no one else would know what she was talking about, except for us. We were, through experience with her, able to translate it into "bottle."

That's how I spoke to Sean's mother. I knew what I was saying, but she couldn't quite get it.

After that, we knew them. Not well, but they told us what was going on in their lives and we told them what was going on in ours. It was small talk, chit-chat. It was simple and harmonious and remembering it makes me miss them.

We went there regularly throughout the years. I practically grew up off of their food. Now, looking back, I see them eternally as they were: Shawn's mother behind the front desk, and Sean waiting by to seat people. He would be smiling. If I strain, I can catch a memory of his face...

We had good times there, though I can't actually say exactly what we did. Just thinking about the place gives me a feeling of happiness and fondness... and sadness. There was a giant, golden Buddha by the door. You were supposed to rub his extended belly for good luck. How many times did I rub his stomach? I do not know.

There was a fantastic picture that moved. As a child, I was so impressed with it. It was a classic looking Chinese landscape -- I think it may be quite a famous picture, because I have seen it in other places since then, but other versions didn't move. Sean's did, though. The water in the rivers flowed, and that was it, but it was enough.

I first cultivated my love of shrimp there. In the beginning, Mom would peel the skins and legs off of them for me, but I consumed so many of those little guys she eventually taught me to do it myself. And then there was the watermelon... Occasionally, I will recall some little, sweet thing my brother has done for me in the past and it makes me love him more. (Even with all of his attempts to annoy me.) The watermelon was one of those things. I loved the succulent fruit, and so he would make sure, every time we went to this buffet, to go and get me some for dessert. He took it upon himself as his job. I remember one time I said I wanted ice cream instead, and he was so disappointed... I think I actually got in trouble for that.

Since that restaurant closed, I have never returned to my passionate love for watermelon. It just doesn't taste the same anymore.

Sean's restaurant closed before I hit fifth grade, though I don't exactly know when. With it ended our relationships with Sean and his mother, and we never saw them again. They had been a part of my life since I was a baby, so this was quite disturbing to me. I heard that they tried to reopen again, but we never went to their new restaurant, and then it too shut down. From there they could have disappeared from the face of the earth for all that I've heard of them.

A/N: This was strangely hard to write. I guess I still miss them.