Lady of the table, whose worship I have not learned: please forgive my manners, the way that I need a spoon for my dumplings. If I could translate my nervous silence into a voice laden with courage, I’d ask you to pass the sweet and sour pork by myself, but here is a fistful of rice – here is a prayer for the people who will sit in this same spot, long after my soup has gone cold and all the vegetables have rotted: may their tongues go unscalded, and may their chopsticks snap clean down the middle, and may they have the courage to answer every question your ahma will ask. I have talked this circle into the shape of an open mouth, into an apology for my silence, and now all I’ve left is hope – that when they find themselves with empty plates, they will know to stay a bit longer after they have said their thanks.