The Mills
BY ERIC YIP
What ends as yarn begins as drawn threads of silver wound onto bobbins by the chapped fingers of mothers. I know this because the exhibition says so. No more scores of machines clattering no cotton spun no cellulose lit gold under the lamp’s UV glow. One floor below I buy a cup of black sugar boba the price of minimum wage. In ten minutes I finish what took an hour to earn tapioca pearls included. It is Sunday and everything is middle-class even the weather. Yesterday I called my lover abroad. He told me he loved me and that he wanted to introduce me to his parents who do not know of my existence. I did not think much of it at the time but now sitting on a gunmetal bench in the atrium swarmed with families I wonder if I should acquiesce to his request. Above phantom machines continue to weave their invisible threads. History ticks by in eight-hour shifts. Soon I will leave this city tethered by feelings I wish to understand. If one day you find me gentrified and placid please remind me of what we have lost.
