#Old call to arms crossword skin

When she rolls onto her side with a rumbling snore, her tails touch your skin and it is too hot to bear. The round of your growing belly presses against your hips, and there is no room to turn in the narrow bed you now share with your mother. It is difficult to sleep in the intense humidity of an Asian metropolis. Grow and change and learn of the sharpness of the world. Resist the urge to roll her into a protective ball and push her back into your belly.

You pinch her cheeks, her round soft arms and legs as if moulded by clay.

Creases her face into that exaggerated grin that makes most adults melt and you immediately pick her up, wrapping her close to your chest with your tails. She is innocent of all of this, reaching for the fallen chopsticks on the carpet with an expression of utter tragedy. You look at your daughter, anurous as yet. To your grandmother, to the husband who left you, to the cat-callers and tail-pinchers. You think I worried about my health? That’s not important. Now I have three grown sons and two daughters. I lost two before birth, and Ah Yeung passed away before his first birthday. Your daughter had been the unexpected miracle. You still felt the cramps come and blood run between your legs. For the third one, you only watched cooking programmes. Your sister said you watched too many violent dramas. After the first loss-the doctor told you to stay in bed for a month. You are rendered a disinterested viewer to the tableau. “Ah Ma,” she says, filling your grandmother’s empty teacup, “she lost three babies.” She means well, to protect you from the onslaught.

A son-would’ve kept him from straying.” Your sister catches the edges of the discussion and veers in. “Two years of being spoilt.” She shakes her head, her tails following suit. “She’s two years old.” You ignore your grandmother’s sharp-toothed jabs as you offer her the cheek from the steamed fish, the drumstick from the roast duck. Time to teach her some manners, don’t you think?” your grandmother says, happy to cast aspersions, whatever time of day. The clips you wrestled into her hair are dangling out, the pretty dress already stained with sauce and milk. She is sitting in the restaurant high chair, banging chopsticks against the red table cloth. Your tails lie flat on the bed, not quite touching. So many things to say, but your mouth is overcrowded with fear. If you are crying for the past or the future contemplating your story, her story, all the stories. Letting tears fall although you do not know if they are yours or hers. She sits on the bed and you sit next to her, letting her rest her head against your shoulder. “You’re still a good girl, aren’t you?” The answer she gives is the one you want to hear. Into the silence, your daughter stumbles a confused apology. Fur conceals a multitude of sins, but your skin is thin. You see with sudden clarity how your injuries stayed with you. You see the hurt flicker across her face, but she needs to know. Thorns grow on your tongue, twisting the meaning. The words are not quite right, not quite what you meant to say. “Why didn’t you keep it in?” you ask again. If you play with fire, it will singe you. Every week since she was little, the litany came. “I warned you, didn’t I, that the time would come. You were not looking for a response, anyhow. I just wish you had kept it in a bit longer.” “Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later. You fold your arms, your own nine tails lowering to sweep your ankles, not quite on the ground. “I see,” you say, staring at her exposed tail. Her mouth hangs open, shrieking like brakes in protest. You throw her bedroom door open without warning, the damp towel clutched around her chest after the shower the only barrier between you. She will lie if you ask her outright, this you know. Perhaps it is the baggy trousers your daughter has started to wear, or that she picks at her food. It is a few days before your suspicions are confirmed.

Old call to arms crossword