Transparency by Frances Hwang Page A

aunt was asleep from the morphine, and when she woke up she was surprised to see all of us standing around her bed. “All
     of you are here because I am going to die,” she said. She told us that she had been dreaming of Grandpa. “We were playing
     mahjong together, and I was two tiles away from winning.” All of us looked at my grandfather, who seemed bewildered. He didn’t
     understand what she was saying. “I was dreaming, and I felt no pain,” my aunt said to him in Chinese. “No pain. It’s nice
     to dream like that.” She closed her eyes to go back to sleep. “I don’t mind dying,” she said, “if death is like a dream.”
    If death is like a dream. I’m afraid it’s a more absolute disconnection. The closest knowledge I get is when I wake up at
     three or four o’clock in the morning. Or maybe that time I was unconscious and they pulled out my wisdom teeth. It was a snipping
     of the wires, no images at all, no sensation of time passing. One moment, they were covering my mouth with a mask and I felt
     my body growing heavy. The next moment, a nurse was touching my arm and I realized that my mouth was full of cotton. No memory
     of the space in between.
    But four o’clock passes. The sky begins to lighten, and I feel my blood rushing inside me.
    On July Fourth, my aunt hosted a celebration on her deck. She wore a green silk Japanese robe embroidered with gold-red chrysanthemums.
     There was something ceremonial about her presence as she sat quietly in her chair. Her face seemed to radiate the peculiar
     glow of the dying. People circled and brushed clumsily against her like huge, errant moths. She smiled at them, yet remained
     calm and untouched. During the fireworks, everyone’s gaze wandered toward her. I lit a fuse, dodged quickly away. The deck
     brightened, a lurid fluorescence, and I looked at all the illuminated faces. An agony of wonder. What secret things passed
     in the dark between us? Streaming colors, the crackle and hiss, and then darkness as everyone stared at the spent fuse. In
     all the pictures we took of that day, my aunt is the focal point. Her presence quietly overwhelms the others. She gazes at
     the camera with clear, shining eyes as if she is staring into her future.

BLUE HOUR
    I t was New Year’s Eve, and the train to New York was crowded. Paul had been late meeting them at the station, and now he and
     Jeremy had rushed off to look for seats. Iris couldn’t help but feel animated, as if she’d drunk a glass of wine. She wondered
     what the two men thought of each other. The train began to move, and she stepped quickly down the aisle. It was a feeling
     of anticipation, really. She sensed it in the other passengers, even though they tried not to show it, keeping their faces
     straight. But every time they glanced at their watches, they would be counting down the hours. Like Iris, they would be thinking
     of the night ahead and who they would be seeing once they got off the train.
    The automatic doors of the compartment slid back, and Iris was treading on rattling metal, feeling the cold wind. Through
     a crack, she could see the ground hurtling beneath her feet. She felt light-headed, aware of the piece of metal on which she
     stood, her body separate from the rush of earth below. Then she stepped into the next car, as if entering a dark red womb,and
     the doors slid shut behind her, sealing off the train’s roar. Bare symmetrical trees floated by along the windows.
    “Iris!” Jeremy called out. He had found seats facing each other. Iris sat down beside him, even though it occurred to her
     that Paul might be annoyed. But she didn’t want Jeremy to think that she and Paul were one of those couples whose bodies were
     fused together. As if they shared a leg or an organ and couldn’t breathe or take a step without the other person.
    The doors parted, cold air blowing in. “All tickets please!” the conductor shouted.
    “When will we get there?” Paul asked as he