Potato - a short fiction writing by Su

The morning breeze combed my fuzzy hair, playing with any strands it could find. The frigid sensation freezes my brain as I felt as if many insects made of ice are crawling on my head. This eases the scorching earth under my feet and made blurry the image of my messy office – with men wearing nice long sleeved shirts and colorful ties, cannot wait to be their sloppy self again. 

In the distance, the electrical poles stand still and firm as I remember, like guardians protecting the village.  I took a breath and filled my lungs with the ripening aroma of the paddy field, although now and then the sharp smell of fertilizer spices it up a little bit.

Is this a hallucination? The village in my memory is drastically contrasted to what in front of my eyes now. And it seems to be inviting me back into its arms.

I know this place too well to be fooled again.

Every day in my childhood I learned many new things, and this includes realizing how poor my village was. I’ve never tasted the excitement before meals as a kid, since I always knew what we were having: potato.  

Hard boiled potato, fried potato, mashed potato, potato soup, you name it. Sometimes we would have some paper-like slice of meat and some broccoli but potato is what always on the table. For the past years I tried to cook and eat many different dishes but could not get rid of the starchy, bland taste that has been glued onto my taste buds, seasoned with the saltiness of my tears.

“Janet! Eat your food and stop crying. You are such an ungrateful brat! Don’t forget that Charlie’s house has much less than us and he has to go to bed at eight so he does not feel hungry.”

Charlie is my neighbor two doors away. He does not talk much and always sit in the corner while we were playing hide and seek. He always wears the same yellow dirty shirt and rarely take a shower, so it is hard to come near and comfort him. However, my mom had no idea that I am exactly the same as Charlie. After two or three days, I would fed up with potato and throw the food away to regain my appetite, but mostly to prove that mom is wrong.

Besides, what does mom know? She has only one duty: cooking for the family. Well two, if you count gossiping with the other moms as a tedious job. 

The one I was always worried about was dad. He works in a gold mine from 5:00 AM to midnight. I tried to stay awake and wait for him on any day I could, with a glass of water ready. He would come back with ashes covering his face like the soldiers in World War I. 

As soon as I saw his shadow, I would run towards him and he would hug me, leaving some traces of dust and ash that I never clean before sleeping. He always tried to move his mouth into a curl and give me a smile. On some days, however, I would hug a zombie dad.

I wanted to tell him that he should change his job to be happier and have time for me, but soon realized that it was the one and only thing he could do to keep our family running. 

There are no factories in the village, and the farmers have far more bad harvests than good ones. If someone asked me why I did not tell my parents to move to the city, I would say: “Oh we have never thought about this! Now let me tell my mom and dad to get their wings ready,” and they would slip away.

Saying that I dislike the village is a euphemism, I abhorred it. It was like a prison, a bottomless hole in which the unfortunate people who once fell down may never see the light again. My everyday life was a frustration. Realizing how poor we were did not make me feel humiliated much. 

On the contrary, it acts like a big pile of hay covered in oil, fueling my determination to make a big leap out of this hell on earth. I am one of the few people to have become a “white-collar”, and all the ones that called me nerdy, geek or dork ended up like my parents or in addiction treating camps.

But right now, that loath is the weakest emotion. I only picture mom’s stunned face when she saw me home. Of course we would cry, but then mom would forget and let her potatoes get burned (a thing that she never tolerate), compliment on my white dress and sit down and talk with me for hours. We would both wait for dad to come home when the clock strikes twelve. And we would…we would… oh there are tons of things that we can do!

Another breeze come and fondles my face. I take a deep breath and ran to the brown house with the leaf rooftop and no windows, feeling every step I go.