We sit down at the dinner table. It’s big enough for three people, but only in use by two. He asks me about my classes in between bites of rice, and I try to explain the best that I can in an amalgamation of Cantonese and English that we understand. I tell him about histories of art he’s never seen before, but he nods anyways. I tell him about histories of art he’s probably seen before, probably know of. He nods anyways, and throws in a few comments here and there, agreeing or explaining how he learned of it, some forty years ago.

For twenty minutes, we live in the past. He tells me about places he’s been to that I’ve only seen in pictures, in presentations, in a small dark classroom. He tells me about a childhood trip to Shaanxi, one that is so old that the memory is barely there. The distance from Shaanxi to Guangzhou is one thousand, seven hundred and seventy four kilometers, a whole twenty four hours by train, but he makes it sound so close. I listen, and I am five again, ten again, and I’ve really never stopped listening, have I? We’ve really never stopped talking either. Mom tells us we talk too much, for people that are supposed to be eating their food. Maybe we do.