.jpg "Tammy Ho Lai-ming ( 何丽明 )")
This morning, we eat cow eyes in the dark. They are stewed, served on plates, and have a strong ginger flavour. Last week we had chicken eyes in steamed rice rolls. They looked like oversized sesame seeds. When she feeds us, Mama reminds us that she was blind too, once, when she was young. But after eating a regular diet of animal eyes, her blindness disappeared. She often assures us that the same will happen to us.
I see better than other kids, because I have one good eye. My right eye has a dark brown pupil and the white is white like a showered rabbit. But my left eye is a lake of confused mist. At least that is what Mama says. It can only see very bright lights and swift-moving objects. But otherwise it is useless – it cannot even wink.
The rest of them do not see at all. Put a rock in front of them and they will trip on it. As I am older and can see with one eye, I have much authority in the bathing hall and the courtyard. I give directions to other kids: where to get the water buckets, how to pick corn. When Mama quits the house for chores, sometimes for days, I am the one in charge.
Mama is not our real mother. How could she give birth to so many kids? But she makes us call her Mama so that we will be loyal to her. Also there is her nurse friend who visits us every week. We call her Auntie Flower. She turns our heads, waves her hands before us, and presses her palm on our hearts to see if they are beating well.
Three days ago, we got another litter. There was nothing special about this. During my ten years' stay, I have seen hundreds of kids come and go. Most of them cry in the first few days. It is always worst in the evening when their cries mix with the sounds of the night: leaves rustling, wind whispering, furniture stretching its muscles. The weaker ones don't last long. They are led, or even dragged, out of the gate by Auntie Flower in a week or so. Wherever they go, it is not home.
The day before I came here, I was collecting firewood outside our house. I saw this woman, dressed in colours I had never seen before in our village, knocking on the neighbours' doors. She did not have much luck with them, and so I was surprised that my Mom admitted her into our house. Excited, I ran back home, eager to see who she was. I handed the tree branches to Grandma, who would burn them in the stove to make us mung-bean congee for breakfast.
The woman smiled at me, and I smiled back. Grandma wanted me to help her in the kitchen. Although reluctant, I obeyed. I sat on the kitchen floor, arranging the firewood into piles of varying sizes, while eavesdropping on the conversation in the next room. I used to remember much of that conversation, but now I can only remember one word: blind.