A Pound of Pork Belly

That year, in the twelfth lunar month, my family managed to buy a jin of pork belly for once.

Steam billowed from the kitchen stove at dinnertime. The pork belly was stewing with cabbage we'd grown ourselves, filling the whole house with its aroma.

My little brother was four. Sitting in our parents' arms, he had chunk after chunk of fatty meat placed into his bowl. The glistening pieces piled high in the porcelain bowl.

I clutched the hem of my dirty clothes, staring at the meat in the pot as I swallowed again and again.

By the time I was six, I rarely got to eat meat. All year, I only got a few chances to smell it around New Year.

I carefully tugged at my mother's sleeve.

"Mom, I want some meat too."

My words had only just left my mouth...