Collecting Receipts 

My mother’s receipts overflow like the clogged toilet in our bathroom a week ago, before my father frantically ran to Lowe’s to buy a plunger. They fall out of her purse like the thin toilet paper from our school bathroom when she pulls out her wallet, scrambling to find her credit card, telling me, 宝宝 (baby), remember to grab the receipt, okay? I open my mouth to say something, but my lips are dry and cracked, and her hand is outstretched and open. I watch her and I obey, because she is my mother. I tug at the slip of paper spit out by the cash register. My mother’s receipts never end up in the trash, because they are sacred; she holds onto them, as I hold onto her. 

Since I was little, my mother has collected receipts. The tomatoes she bought from Walmart, oh so red today; the shirt she bought from Target, my brother is growing up so fast; the pineapple cake she bought from Costco, she misses the taste of home. When I ask her why, she tells me they were for her “records,” the little notebook she would rummage out of her drawer each month, receipts scattered across the table, recording each one like tax reports. I sit at the table, watching her brows furrow when the math doesn’t add up, the pen in her hand drumming her notebook in perfect rhythm. I watch in admiration, in love with the way her forehead crinkles when she thinks, in love with the way the corner of her eyes crease when she smiles, in love with the way strands of soft gray hair fall across her face when her tie slips loose. I am in love with the way she writes, loopy, yet not cursive; I try to imitate it on my own. My mother is my first love, and I have never stopped loving her. I sit there, her quiet, obedient daughter, watching, as if to say, Mama, I love you, or, You’re my everything, or, Please don’t go.

But to love is to lie to yourself that it is forever, to live in a state of constant paranoia when you realize it will be gone one day. 

*** 

I get so scared now, Mama. Time goes by so fast, so fast we cannot catch up. I get scared when I repeat the same thing three times, but you still say “Ah?” because you didn’t hear. I get scared when I talk about my friends, and you forget who they are. I get scared when you walk up the stairs, and I can hear your knees cracking. I get scared when I tell you about my day, and you only blink, still processing the words I said minutes ago. 

I am so scared of losing you, Mama. 

I am scared of you losing me, too. 

*** 

I do not know who I would be if not my mother’s good daughter. My mother talks, and I listen. My mother instructs, and I do. I’m always the mom of my friends; they admit it themselves, too, too mature and anxious for my age, too worried about getting in trouble, too cautious of breaking rules, too conditioned to speaking with adults. I cannot imagine leaving home, and the thought of college scares me; I get homesick so easily. I don’t know how I would do my laundry without my mom, which colors to mix and not to mix in the wash, when to use bleach, or how to use Tide Pods; I can only clumsily stain my clothes. I don’t know how to use a stove, how much oil to put in the frying pan, or how much rice to put in the pot.

I can’t make my own decisions, use my own brain, or think for myself without frantically searching for my mother’s approval. I don’t know what to wear; her eyes scan over my body as I pull on my jeans, the corners of her mouth twitching, 宝宝, have you gotten bigger? Let Mama look again, the waist looks a little tight, so I take my jeans off. I can’t choose what to buy from the store without sending her a text, Mama, does this look good? And her Ok leaves me deprived of satisfaction; I crave her validation constantly. 

Sometimes I feel selfish for how much I need her, but I don’t know how not to be a good daughter, how not to embrace my mother’s arms, how not to stay with her warmth forever, because it is all I have ever known. 

I cannot untie my identity from hers. 

*** 

I begin to collect receipts wherever I go. When the cashier asks if I want one, I always say yes. My eyes linger over the cash register, and I wait patiently, like the good daughter I am, for it to finish printing out. My friends never ask for receipts, but I always make sure I do, because you have taught me so. 

I collect them madly, the cardholder in my backpack no longer full of cards, but stuffed with receipts—from the bookstore, from the coffee shop, from the mall—documenting my life, taking the place of my diary. I never throw my receipts away, though I know they are just paper guaranteed to become waste, but I'm so attached to them, to holding onto them, to the thought of holding onto you.

*** 

I do not know who I would be without my mother. My flesh is born from hers, my body more hers than mine. She has sculpted me since the day I was born, into the shape she wants, and I have simply become it; I let her touch me. I want to experience life without my mother, but my mother is me, and I am her. 

I am wild, too. I want to kiss a boy without worrying about sex; I want to dance at clubs without fearing I’ll get drunk; I want to bungee jump without wondering if I’ll survive because I know I’ll be okay on my own. 

I can live with the consequences of being myself. I’m scared that my mother can’t. 

One day, someone will ask me a question, and I won’t be able to whip my head around, searching for her nod before I answer. I need to know who I am without her gaze. I need to find myself, too. 

*** 

Mama, tell me that story you told me years ago, about the farmer who found a snake in the winter snow, frozen and dying. Tell me that story again, about how the farmer saves the snake, bringing it to shelter, only to be bitten and die. Tell me again, how this is my life, how you need to protect me, how I need to learn to protect myself when you are no longer there. Mama, please tell me this story again, please don’t forget it like the last time I asked. But you only tell me, 宝 宝, Mama is old and forgets, please be patient with Mama. I can tell you are tired and exhausted,

so I smile and nod, hug you, because I am your good daughter. I am always your good daughter. But in my head I say Mama, please try, please stay; I am not ready yet, I am scared; don’t go. *** 

I want to grow up without leaving my mother behind. It scares me when I don’t need her, when I am 970 miles away. When her texts, 宝宝, where are you? or 宝宝, are you having fun? or 宝宝, Mama misses you, pile up on my phone for days and I don’t respond, it scares me. When I stop picking up her phone calls and her FaceTimes, it scares me. When I figure out the laundry machine by myself and my clothes come out normal, colors unmixed, it scares me. When I realize I am okay without her, it scares me. It scares me that I don’t need my mother anymore, that she is becoming out of reach, that I am growing up on my own. 

When I come home this summer, my mother begins to talk, 宝宝, Mama wants you to go to college close to home; it is good there, we have family there, there is a church there, you will be safe there; Mama wants you to ED there, it is best for you there, best for us there, but she has said this many times already and I want to scream for the thousandth time, Stop, stop it. Let me talk. I want to talk. I open my mouth and tell her I don’t want to, that it is a good school but I know I can do better, that she should trust me if not believe in me, that this is my life and I can make my own choices even if I’m scared and uncertain, and she sits there in silence because I am her good daughter who has talked back. When the silence grows too loud, she responds, 宝宝, Mama supports you, and I begin to cry because I don’t know who I am anymore. *** 

I collect receipts, one by one, each one a lost prayer I’m too scared to whisper out loud. Let me be with my mama. Let me be her 宝宝. Please, let’s stay this way forever. I hold onto these

receipts, perhaps because they feel like fragments of you, fragments that are tangible even when you are slipping away. I hold onto these, because I am so scared of losing you, because losing you feels like losing me. 

But I want to be freed. 

Tonight, when you reach to stroke my hair, 宝宝, come here, let Mama hug you, I gently catch your hands midair. I hold your hands in mine, caress them softly the way you used to do to mine, feeling how worn, how rough your skin has become with age, but I do not pull you in. Mama, I am alright on my own. 

You give my hands a tight squeeze, your knuckles pressing into mine, before I unravel my fingers from yours, turning around, letting go. 

That night, in my dreams, I spot a crumpled receipt on the counter, ink fading. In my dream, I feel so grounded and concrete that I begin to walk with purpose, without fear; I walk on my own. The receipt is the one I grabbed from the cash register for you that morning, a familiar sight that feels so distant now. In my dream, I smooth it flat, fold it in half, and slip it into my pocket. 

A piece of you I carry with me, not in place of me.