Long distance heartache

Margaret showed up at my door this afternoon with a tin of jasmine tea and that particular look that means she needs to talk about family. Her sister in Taiwan had called this morning with updates about their elderly aunt, and Margaret was feeling the weight of being an ocean away from the people who raised her.

Long distance heartache

We settled at the breakfast bar with proper teacups (none of my usual coffee mugs would do for jasmine tea, according to Margaret), and she told me about her childhood summers in Taipei, helping her aunt tend the rooftop garden and learning to fold dumplings that never quite matched her cousin’s perfect pleats. The way she described the humidity and the sound of scooters at dawn made me homesick for a place I’ve never been.

Then I found myself telling her about the phone call I had with Abuela Rosa yesterday, how she’s been asking when I’m coming to visit again and whether Jake wants to learn her mole recipe.

The kind of conversation that makes three hours feel like minutes

Three hours later, we’re both sitting here with cold tea, missing people who are too far away and wondering why distance makes every conversation feel urgent and precious at the same time.

Jake walked in around six to find us plotting a hypothetical trip where we’d visit Taiwan and Mexico in the same month, because apparently homesickness is contagious and now we’re both convinced that fall is the perfect time to go hug our elderly relatives.