When she was diagnosed with late-stage pancreatic cancer at sixty-three, she thought the doctor would give her dietary dos and don’ts. Instead, he said: nothing she ate would change anything now. She froze, her mother’s food warnings echoing in her ears. Her hometown Guangzhou was known for lychees, but her mother said, “One lychee could ignite three fires in your body.” They were honey-wrapped blades. Even on the hottest summer days, she was only allowed a sliver of watermelon. Because, “Watermelon makes you sick from the inside.” A spoonful would glaze her organs in frost. The chill would creep up her spine. When she bought rice rolls for Ahma, her mother scolded her: “Rice rolls are hard to digest.” After a few bites, they would settle in her stomach like translucent burial shrouds.

Now she couldn’t even eat a sip of rice porridge. But her mind brimmed with all the things she was never supposed to eat.

Sago in coconut milk. Fried dough sticks. Twisted crullers. Salted egg yolk pastries. Peach cookies. Jelly. Mung bean paste. Jackfruit. Let her blood sugar rise. Sanhua plums, the kind her mother said could “bury people.” So bury her under the plum tree.

Mooncakes. Braised pork belly. Whipped cream cake. Fried flatbread. Fried chicken. Let her heart burst if it must. Sticky rice dumplings. Sweet rice balls. Persimmons. Let the cramps come. Let the bloat swell.

Her stomach turned into a black hole, every twitch a cry for more. She stopped thinking about what food might do to her, and wondered instead what her body might do with it. What it craved, remembered, failed to digest, yet still yearned to absorb.

She chewed on a White Rabbit candy, its milky sweetness yanking her back. Her only daughter had moved to Los Angeles ten years ago, leaving her alone. She pressed her cheek to her baby daughter’s head—warm with sweat and milk. She devoured a bowl of suancai fish, the sour-spicy broth igniting her palate. Her father came home from work, his shirt soaked with sweat, and swept her into his arms. She gnawed on a ginger-vinegar pork trotter. Sweet. Sharp. Pungent. Her mother had left when she was twelve. But they smiled at each other, an apron slack around her mother’s thin waist. She swallowed preserved pork stir-fried with green peppers; smoky fat burst against her teeth. She rested her head on Ahma’s lap as they watched TV, while Ahma cleaned her ears. That comforting smell of cooking smoke always clung to her clothes.

And at last, she felt it.

Fullness. Weight. Wholeness.

She had tasted them all again.

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Huina Zheng holds an M.A. with Distinction in English Studies and works as a college essay coach. Her stories have been published in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and other reputed publications. Her work has been nominated thrice for both the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net. She resides in Guangzhou, China with her family.