Tiny Love Stories: ‘Several Failed First Dates’
Winter Reminiscence Miles into our icy hike, Daniel removed his gloves to warm my face in his hands. My eyes closed. At 12, I asked my pediatrician when my baby cheeks would disappear. “Sometimes that’s just our face, sweetie.” I fought back tears.
In college, a friend’s mother referred to me as “con mặt tròn tròn,” Vietnamese for “the one with the very round face.” Last year, my mother finally riddled out why I hated whenever she brushed hair from my face.
I opened my eyes. My cheeks still cradled, I’d never felt more seen, or loved, than in those winter woods. — Hanh-Tu Ella Do Giving Freely My father hoarded his dry-roasted peanuts, those over-salted ones in the glass jar with a metal lid.
He’d share with his young sons begrudgingly. Aggrieved, he’d tap them out from the jar: one lid-full at most, always. As adults, my brother and I were astounded to find these peanuts sold in ordinary grocery stores.
