The Anatomy of a House

String joins two red plastic cups together. Avoiding 9:15 PM bedtimes, my sister and I ran yarn under our doors as if reinventing the telephone. We hatched plans to climb across the balcony fence. At midnight, we argued about Naruto and school lunches, played chess with paper sculptures, and lit the wall with a flashlight to make shadow shows. Now I walk into my sister’s room only to see undisturbed layers of dust. The walls are still pink and lined with embarrassing baby photos. Half-filled shelves lined with Harry Potter, YA novels, and chess trophies are gathering dust; the rest are in the corner of a messy Ithaca dorm room. Bābā no longer watches over me while I finish my homework, as he is now wheeling his suitcase to business meetings. Māmā does not check if I am sleeping well anymore; her new timezone means she is often asleep when I’m awake. Architects designed this house and its rose garden with a vision in mind—a couple, their Golden Retriever, and their 2.5 children. Yet my parents have created homes inside their suitcases, rushing to Hong Kong and Shenzhen in business casual. I flip open the light switch in my room, illuminating the messy junkyard: tendrils of used clothes crawling out from my nightstand, pieces of AP Econ homework scattered across the floor, and an unmade bed. When my parents return this time, I am frustratingly indifferent. Only a year ago, I would rush downstairs to the noise of the doorbell ringing and start wrestling with bābā. Māmā would rush to make me food, and I would patiently wait at 12:30 AM for the large dumplings to be served. But it's different now—frozen dumplings spin around in the microwave.