Not This Piece of Pork

The flies buzzed, gingerly circled and separately settled on the pieces of raw pork. I couldn't tear my eyes away. I just had to linger and see how often the flies landed on the meat. It was such a familiar scene from childhood. After a while, the stall owner chopped them smaller and the pieces of pork were bought by customers who passed by on motorbikes.

I remember as a little girl, my grandfather used to take me along to the wet market everyday to buy fresh meat and fish for the family. I would hop and skip along to the stalls. When the stall owner wasn't looking, I'd poke hard at the meats and fish with my grubby little fingers. Just for fun. Then as my grandfather picked out the items I had poked, I'd tug at his sleeve and shake my head. Laughing, he would put down the item and merrily picked another, and another till I nodded my head.

When I saw those pieces of meat along the streets laid out like what I remembered from my childhood, I had to resist the urge to fight with the flies to poke at the offerings. I could almost feel my grandfather at my side. I turned and half raised a hand to tug at his sleeve to whisper "Don't buy." 

Then I remembered he wasn't actually here anymore. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and brushed away an invisible tear.