August 17

Mom nearly forgot about the school board meeting. I think everyone basically forgot it. The only things we all remember are wood gathering day on Monday and food gathering day on Saturday. Every other day in the week blurs together and stretches out.

When Mom came back, she seemed angry and sad, kicking off previously tight boots all too easily. Dad came up to the doorway, looking a bit concerned. "What happened?"

She scoffed. "Nothing. Those people couldn't even answer anything."

"Did they say anything about school re-opening?"

"They said that the textbook distribution was just a 'right now' measure until they're able to come up with a final plan," Mom replied. "But they should have something down now. They've had all summer to figure out a plan."

"What about the school library?"

Mom sighed, rubbing her forehead. "They're still figuring that out like they're figuring out everything else. But I doubt that the library's staying open."

"Why?"

"I walked past the school today," she replied.

"Isn't it far—"

"It's only a couple of minutes detour," she said, cutting him off. "The city is dismantling the solar panels above the parking lots. I didn't get a chance to ask about it since I only saw it on the way back."

"Okay," Dad said and looked down. "So what are we going to do about Neal and May's school and learning?"

She put her hands up and shrugged. "I don't know. Make them read the textbooks? Thinking about it now, I don't even know why we checked out the textbooks. It sounded like a good idea but now It just seems pointless."

"It's not. It's not," Dad replied. "I don't know. Maybe we can figure something out. We will figure something out."

"I just wish that they'd have a chance to just feel a sense of normalcy, like everything that's happening now isn't happening, at least just for a couple of hours."

"I don't think we can," Dad replied. "It's just— There's just too much happening around us that's just too hard to ignore."

"I know. I just feel like I've failed them," Mom said with a long sigh, and there was an awkward silence between them that hung there for what felt like longer than a second.

"Oh, Neal. I didn't notice you were there," Dad said, turning towards me. "What do you need?"

I made something up on the fly. "I was going to grab something, but I guess I'll leave you two in peace."

"Actually, can you grab something for me," Dad said. "I'm sick of eating canned food every day, and I remember seeing a dhokla package—"

"No, not dhokla," I said. "I'd rather eat canned food."

"Nope, we're eating dhokla today," he said. "Go get Mira and May and get working on a batch. The instructions are on the back of the package. I think we deserve something fresh today."

"Fine," I said, grumbling.

I went to our room and poked May on the shoulder. "Guess what we're eating for dinner?"

"What?" she said, mindlessly spinning in circles on the swivel chair. "Canned corn instead of canned beans?"

"Nope," I said. "We're eating your favorite dhokla."

"Ugh," she said. "Was this Dad's idea?"

"Yep," I said. "We have to make it. Dad's orders."

After I grabbed Mira who was reading one of the books that I checked out from the library ages ago, we rummaged through the pantry and found the package of dhokla mix near the back, covered in a thin layer of dust.

"Is that even edible?" May asked.

I shrugged and handed her the package as she took it reluctantly. Making it really wasn't that hard, probably because it was one of those instant mixes, as I mixed around two cups of water with the package while May poured water in the steamer and greased the steaming plates. Mira opened up a can of tomato sauce (because we didn't have any ketchup) and mixed some masala with oil for Mom and Dad because that's what they liked.

Everything felt oddly normal at that moment, all of us just talking about random stuff and complaining about cooking and making sure to keep track of time and not overcook the food. It's weird how this whole week has been crazy, careening from May's absurd plans to just standing around as the smell of food wafted around us. Even though dhokla wasn't my favorite food, my mouth was watering as I opened the steamer with my oven mitts, taking out the mix, now puffy from steaming, and letting it cool.

After they had all cooled and Mira had cut them, all of us, including Grandma and Grandpa too, sat at the dining table. There were only enough for eight one inch by one-inch sized squares per person, and Mom and Dad both gave May and I two squares. When I tried to give it back, Mom said, "I'm not that hungry today."

"Same here," Dad said and patted his stomach. "Still got to burn off these college calories."

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"And plus, you'll need energy for tomorrow," Mom said. "Since everyone seems to be doing well, we're going to be doing wood gathering again."

"Ugh," May said, though she probably only half meant it.

"Wood doesn't gather itself," Mom said. "So eat up and get ready."

There was a small lull in the conversation before Dad cleared his throat and spoke up. "The dhokla tastes good."

"Better than average, I guess," I said. It was about the only truthful thing I said this week, but there was something nice about it. Maybe it was because the texture was softer than what I remembered or maybe it was because of the sensation of fresh, warm food on my tongue or maybe it was the clenching of my stomach from the hunger pangs, but whatever it was, it tasted good.

"So it tastes great," Dad said. "Since okay for you means good, so better than okay means that it must be great."

"Whatever you say, Dad," I said and put another piece into my mouth.

"We should do this more often," Dad said. "It's nice to sit here and eat food together."

"Maybe my parents can make something next week. I don't think we can do this every day, but weekly sounds good," Mom said and asked Grandma and Grandpa something that loosely translated to "What do you want to make for food tomorrow?" or something similar to that. My Chinese skills have clearly deteriorated after stopping lessons in middle school.

They said something in Chinese back to Mom about pork and cabbage and Mom asked something about vegetables, probably since Dad is a vegetarian. Mom turned back to the rest of us and said, "They'll look into the pantry and see what they can make."

"Maybe I can start pulling out some of the old cookbooks from the bookshelf to see what we can make using the cans," Dad replied.

"Staring at cookbooks is probably not the best idea," May added. "I'd get so hungry looking at all the pasta and pizza and all the other food."

"I'll be fine," Dad said and he paused for a second before saying, "Maybe we should start a new tradition."

"Where did that come from?" May asked.

Dad ignored her. "I think it would be a good idea to have dinner together, at least every week, and talk about something that we're grateful for—"

"No," May replied immediately, cutting him off mid-sentence. "That's so cringe-y. It's literally so cliche."

"I think it'd be good," Dad said.

It really was a cheesy idea, and I said, "I kinda agree with May. It sounds really cheesy, and we know what everyone's going to say."

"And what are they going to say?"

"Family, food, being alive, water, that kind of stuff," I said before quickly clarifying. "It's not that I'm not grateful for all of those, it's just that it doesn't really add anything new, you know, like we're all grateful for those too."

"Exactly," May said. "Listen to Neal. And plus, every single time a family does this in an apocalypse movie someone dies, and I think I'd prefer not to inherit the gratitude curse."

"Also, we should save this for Thanksgiving," May added. "If you really want to do it, make it a one-time event."

There was a brief lull in the conversation, and May was about to put her dishes in the sink and leave when Mira said, "I'll go first."

No one really said anything for a couple of moments. I think May was going to snark something back, but she held it back. Dad turned to Mira. "Great! We have our first volunteer."

Mira made a small smile and began speaking. "One thing that I'm grateful about is just all of your support over the past week and a half since—" she said, pausing before taking a deep breath and continuing. "Since Leon left and just helping me work through everything that I'm feeling."

"I'll go next," Mom said. "I'm grateful for the axe and solar panel Neal brought back yesterday. Sometimes the world just gives us lucky breaks, and I sure as hell need one."

Dad laughed a little before saying, "Well I'm just grateful for this hot meal in front of me and for my kids for making them. I know we've had our disagreements—"

"That's putting it lightly," May muttered.

"But I'm so proud of you guys, and I know we're going to make it. We have to."

He tried to sound confident with the last part, but I think everyone could hear the little tinge of doubt in his voice, one that he unsuccessfully tried remedying with confidence, that dampened all of our moods. There was an awkward silence.

Mom turned towards both of us. "What about you guys? Neal, you want to start first?"

The odd thing was that the first thing that popped into my mind was the Mooncrash. I know I wish that everything could just go back to normal, so that everyone, Mom, Dad, Charles and his family, wouldn't need to worry about starving or gathering enough wood to survive the oncoming winter or the tides of the end of the world really.

We would all just be living our lives out perfectly happy and normal: Mom and Dad saving up for retirement while discussing vacation plans to Hawaii, Grandma and Grandpa gardening and talking with their church friends, May going to parties and hanging out with her friends in boba cafes, Mira and Leon being together, married and joyful, a grand future ahead of them, and me just making it through school, one day at a time, until it was time to face college.

But at the same time, things have gotten better. Mira and Dad haven't fought in quite some time, something unthinkable for me in April when they were barely on speaking terms, and my only friendship has gotten better, you know, from when I thought that everything was drifting apart. And I guess I wonder if things would've ever gotten better if everything didn't happen, and I guess I'm just grateful that things did get better, even if I wish the Mooncrash didn't have to intrinsically come with them.

But it was too hard to say in words, and even reading over what I just wrote, I can't seem to capture all my jumbled thoughts right, so I just went with something generic. "I'm grateful for all of you guys too."

"Maybe something a bit more specific?" Dad implored, but I shrugged my shoulders.

Dad towards May. "You have something to say?"

She crossed her arms. "Fine. I conform to your peer pressure. I'm grateful that I'm not dead."

"Thanks to everyone for doing this," Dad said, stacking everyone's plates.

"That was so syrupy," May said. "Like disgustingly sappy."

"Well we got to add a little syrup to a bad situation to make it sweeter."

"Please kill me," she said. "I think I'm going to die."

Dad smiled a bit and said to everyone. "C'mon, time to sleep early. A long day ahead of us tomorrow."

Mira and Mom both yawned and stood up, walking towards the bathroom as Dad went into his bedroom, leaving May and I as the only people in the living room. She turned towards me. "Mom and Dad tried brushing off eating less."

"I know."

"Are we going to make it?"

"I don't know," I replied, trying to muster as much positivity as I could. "But I know we're going to make it till tomorrow. So just try to be positive."

"Do you actually believe that though?"

"Does it matter?" I said before adding. "I read about that time when they did an experiment and fake smiling actually—"

"Goodbye," May said and walked away.

"What?" I said. "It was an interesting study."

"I think I'd fall asleep on the couch by the time you finished," she replied. "And plus, you know what Dad said about waking up early tomorrow."

So she left, leaving me alone. And for some reason, I started thinking about that day Charles and I went to the creek when the air was fluttering with summer warmth and closeness, his arm guiding mine over the sprawling night sky during that weird time in between, after the worst of the tides but before the volcanic eruptions. There was something precious about it, no fears about the college, no fears about surviving the next day, just living in that moment.

I know it's pointless to think about a past that would never happen again, and maybe I'm over exaggerating the moment, gold-washing that memory to bring myself hope right now, but there's something about that memory that's irresistible that I can't stop replaying over and over in my head.

I wonder if there's more to that memory than what I'm writing out.