I Close My Eyes and Taste Red

Vivian Apple

To my mother. 

In Chinese culture, red is a very lucky color. Red is the color of the Lunar New Year, of wealth, weddings, and my mother’s qipao (旗袍). Red smells like the sharp scent of freshly cut ginger (姜). Red tastes like red dates (红枣) and honey (蜂蜜) steeped in boiling water. Red sounds like the swish of a silk dress and my mother’s voice, humming an old lullaby. Red tastes like me. Red is the color of my blood. And Red is the color of my bedsheets. 

I wake up and feel the familiar, dull throbbing in my lower back. Fighting the urge to nestle back into my blankets, I begrudgingly make my way over to my dorm room’s small kettle, careful not to step on the creaky floorboards in fear of waking my roommate. As the water starts to boil, I grab my mug, and my mother’s words begin to fill my thoughts. 

Drink this. It’s good for women’s bodies. This will help; this is what Chinese women have been doing for thousands of years.

One, two, three wrinkly red dates plink softly into my cup, accompanied by shards of frozen ginger. As a generous 12 oz of hot water meet the icy contents, steam rises from my cup and blurs my vision; blurring my distinction between the past and the present: 
But I hate dates! They’re so gross!

Just drink it, one day you will understand. 

Why do I have to drink it? Dates are too sweet and I don’t like the texture.

This…this is good for our bodies. Remember that you have to take care of yourself. 

Whatever Mommy…

I slowly watch the steam rise from my cup and the water turn a light, then a deep red color, the little fractals of defrosted ginger bobbing up and down. I take a deep breath and drink. As the warm concoction travels down my throat, I feel a warmth throughout my body, almost like my mother is there, giving me a hug, and rubbing my 13-year old back back, saying that…  

It will get better soon. This is just a trial each woman must endure. 

While I drink, I taste my history, a history rooted deeply in the auspiciousness of red. As I drink, I understand my mother better. 

What she couldn’t express to me about womanhood in English and what I couldn’t understand about leaving girlhood behind in Chinese, I understand and experience the Red for myself. 

I close my eyes and think of all of the millions of date trees rooted in Chinese history. I close my eyes and remember the chaotic atmosphere of a Song Dynasty apothecary in her hometown of Hangzhou and going with her to buy dried dates and goji berries. I remember the rich, intoxicating perfume of herbs that saturated the apothecary and permeated into my cotton summer dresses. 

I remember the humid Hangzhou summer afternoons watching my mother drink this drink, the sweat beading along her forehead and neck. She would always close her eyes, and sigh with each sip. In those moments I thought my mother was at her most serene, at her most beautiful. At the time, I never understood why she drank this drink, but now, I gain clarity. It was during those times of Red that my mother turned to 5000 year old traditional medicine, now passing this rich body of knowledge on to me. 

When I finish drinking, the reverie leaves me and the memories of my mother dissipate like the steam from my cup. I smile to myself and open up my phone to send her a text: 

妈妈，我想你 

(Mommy, I miss you)