Pópo yòu bāo zòngzi la?

A grandmother's annual ritual.

Every Autumn, Popo will come by our house.

Several times, she’ll take over the house with bags of rice and containers of salted egg yolks arranged like shining jewels.

I will always be enamoured by the tenacity of which she wraps these tetrahedral packages of love.

Her hands, singlehandedly, preserving the magnitude
of shared history and tradition.

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