Where the Milk-Scented Smoke Goes
Huina Zheng
My youngest daughter was forced out of me before she ever opened her eyes. And yet, after her death, I watch her grow—running, babbling, laughing.
She first crawls as I mop the floor, her tiny palms leaving faint, wet prints behind me. She follows me to every corner of the house. When she begins to walk, she totters so closely that I often turn and step through her small body. “Sweetheart,” I say, “make a sound so Mama knows you’re there.” But she only flashes me a grin with two pearl-like teeth.
Once she learns to speak, she never stops. When her sister recites “Before My Bed the Moonlight Glows,” she echoes the poem like a string of silver bells. When her father lounges on the sofa watching TV, she chirps along with the actors. When I play music, she sings with Faye Wong. At dinner, when we chat, she parrots every word. The house is full of milk-scented chatter—soft phrases that turn to pale smoke, drifting around chandeliers, settling in teacups, sometimes slipping into my nose, stinging my eyes.
Even when I walk on the trails of Forget-Me-Not Hill, I still see that smoke. Beneath flame trees, in the bushes, on the leaf-covered path. A squirrel’s tail carries her giggle; a cat’s meow holds her lilt. On windy days, I fear the breeze will carry off her unfinished “Mama.” When I try to speak to her, the smoke scatters.
If I had run faster that stormy night, hidden better, I might have saved her. Five years ago, rumors swept the village: the family planning officers were coming for inspections. Eight months pregnant, I fled into the mountains. Inside me, she tapped out a Morse code. “Don’t be afraid,” I whispered. “Mama will always protect you.”
But they found me. Hauled me into a truck. Into a clinic. Into a cold room. When the metal entered me, I heard her last heartbeat drop like a glass bead.
Now I stop at a patch of bare earth with a small mound. I place my hand on it. She smiles, sharp baby teeth showing. “Mama’s here to visit you,” I whisper. A pain twists in my belly. I lower my head. Her pointed teeth pierce my skin—yet there’s no blood.
I reach out and touch her cold forehead, where dew from that night still clings. She tilts her face upward. Sunlight passes through her transparent body, casting a pale blue shadow—clearer than it ever was when she was alive.
She first crawls as I mop the floor, her tiny palms leaving faint, wet prints behind me. She follows me to every corner of the house. When she begins to walk, she totters so closely that I often turn and step through her small body. “Sweetheart,” I say, “make a sound so Mama knows you’re there.” But she only flashes me a grin with two pearl-like teeth.
Once she learns to speak, she never stops. When her sister recites “Before My Bed the Moonlight Glows,” she echoes the poem like a string of silver bells. When her father lounges on the sofa watching TV, she chirps along with the actors. When I play music, she sings with Faye Wong. At dinner, when we chat, she parrots every word. The house is full of milk-scented chatter—soft phrases that turn to pale smoke, drifting around chandeliers, settling in teacups, sometimes slipping into my nose, stinging my eyes.
Even when I walk on the trails of Forget-Me-Not Hill, I still see that smoke. Beneath flame trees, in the bushes, on the leaf-covered path. A squirrel’s tail carries her giggle; a cat’s meow holds her lilt. On windy days, I fear the breeze will carry off her unfinished “Mama.” When I try to speak to her, the smoke scatters.
If I had run faster that stormy night, hidden better, I might have saved her. Five years ago, rumors swept the village: the family planning officers were coming for inspections. Eight months pregnant, I fled into the mountains. Inside me, she tapped out a Morse code. “Don’t be afraid,” I whispered. “Mama will always protect you.”
But they found me. Hauled me into a truck. Into a clinic. Into a cold room. When the metal entered me, I heard her last heartbeat drop like a glass bead.
Now I stop at a patch of bare earth with a small mound. I place my hand on it. She smiles, sharp baby teeth showing. “Mama’s here to visit you,” I whisper. A pain twists in my belly. I lower my head. Her pointed teeth pierce my skin—yet there’s no blood.
I reach out and touch her cold forehead, where dew from that night still clings. She tilts her face upward. Sunlight passes through her transparent body, casting a pale blue shadow—clearer than it ever was when she was alive.
Huina Zheng holds an M.A. with Distinction in English Studies and works as a college essay coach. Her stories have been published in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and other reputed publications. Her work has been nominated thrice for both the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net. She resides in Guangzhou, China with her family.