A Bowl of Rice with My Father

My father isn't much of a talker. He shows love through food, mostly rice.

When I visited him in Sacramento this spring, after not seeing him for nearly a year, he didn't say much at the airport. He just took my bag and said, "Hungry?"

At his apartment he made rice the way he always does, in the same dented pot he's had since 1987, with a little piece of salted fish and some scallions. He set two bowls on the table and sat down across from me.

We ate in silence for a while. Then he said, "Still good?" and I said, "Still the best." He nodded and gave me the last piece of fish.

That was the whole conversation. It said everything.