"Forrest Gump" by Grace Song

Forrest Gump

On Mother’s Day, I visit the hospital. When I sit at the edge of her bed, she tells me her favorite movie is Forrest Gump.  

I was twenty-five when I came to America, she tells me. She begins all her stories like this. My friend had a TV in her basement. It was small and smelled like dead cockroaches.

I nod. These days, I try not to take my mother too seriously. She stares at the ceiling until her eyes turn glassy. Or maybe it’s just a trick from the lights. She’s trying to think. She’s trying so hard, the corners of her mouth start foaming. 

Everyone loved Forrest, she finally says. 

I squeeze her hand. Everyone loves Forrest, I repeat after her. 

He just ran, she says. He ran and ran and ran. Right into the sunlight. She smiles, and her face melts into wrinkles like a dried peach. I want to remember her like this. She sighs. Her eyes close. The pulse in her wrist slows down until her skin is cool against mine. 

Outside, summer hangs, low and sweet. I want my mother. I hold onto her tightly, but no one knows where she’s been. No one knows where she’s going.

Grace Song

Grace Q. Song is a Chinese American writer from New York. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Glass: A Journal of Poetry, DIALOGIST, Crab Creek Review, Into the Void, [PANK], and elsewhere. A 2019 Best of the Net nominee, she enjoys listening to ABBA and Yoke Lore.

Headshot: Grace Song

Photo Credit: Staff