In the living room, our fifteen-inch television has tumbled facedown onto the floor, its glass splintered in every direction. The white Gwun Yum statue has also fallen and has broken in two. Now that it is broken, I can see that it is hollow inside. Popo’s photo has also fallen facedown. There is shattered glass everywhere. Mom runs to the picture and picks it up. There is a big harsh diagonal scratch across Popo’s face. The scratch pains me. It looks as if a knife has slashed her face. Mom is crouched over and kneeling as she clutches the photo, oblivious to the broken glass all around her. “How do we remedy this, Fei Ting?” she says. “This is my only picture of her, no negatives, no copies.” I have no answer for her. Not putting it up isn’t an option, but displaying the big scratch also seems offensive. Instead, I avoid the issue. “Don’t move,” I say. I get a broom and begin sweeping away the glass so she won’t get hurt. Mom stays frozen like a large round boulder.
