NICK YIN

On a warm spring night, I sat awake for a long time, unsure how to begin describing these tangled days. Too many scenes flickered in my mind, shifting like an old reel of film played too fast. Returning hometown always brings gatherings with childhood friends. Last night I drank more than I should have; even at dawn, the alcohol still lingered. In truth, it was not that much—compared with my old friends urging toast after toast, I barely drank. But it has been years since I last felt that...

From twenty thousand feet above, the earth below appears in inky purples and murky greens. Rivers glint like strands of silver hair, twisting and clinging to the landscape. Here and there lie soft patches of pale green—new crops, small forests. And then, wide mirrors of light flash back the blue and white of the sky, scattering discs of reflected sun. Lakes. Large and small, pressed against the earth like oversized tears. The biggest of them is Lake Ontario. Every time I fly into or out of...

In the dog days of summer, Yiyang’s sun presses straight down on your skull, so harsh you can only squint into the light. The air becomes a giant steamer; open the door and a wave of heat pushes you back, searing your skin. My hometown’s summers have always lived in my memory as a haze of dizziness—streets nearly empty, silence so deep it rings in your ears. Along the embankment of the Zi River, weeds and grasses stretch across the slope. Their leaves are no longer green, but coated evenly in...