THE  27Th  EDITIOn

Puberty
by Adrienne Stallings

Saturdays were for eating McDonald’s

at the dim-sum tables

as our parents prattled in Tagalog

around mouthfuls of fried rice

and crispy noodles. It was a rite

of passage—in a sense—that transition

of chicken nuggets to salt

and pepper squid. The meal came

to an end with each tita racing

to the register for the honor

of paying the bill.

I came of age too late. By

twelve, the dinners stopped

and family

moved away. I go to that restaurant

every now and then. It was much fuller

in my memories—thirty of us crammed

around two tables (both meant

to seat only eight). I’ll sit alone at a table for four

and watch the ghosts of Joveros past

dash across the carpeted stage, sending

my cousins the dish of the day. And then

I’ll dab my lips

with a soiled napkin, pay the bill,

and be on my way.