jade green

By Carolyn Cheng '24

It is found hanging from a rack in a small Chinatown shop on Mott Street where a veteran waits behind the counter. It does not decorate his neck, but it will yours. Your grandmother wore it, your mother wore it, but your daughters might not. When it does not adorn slender necks or wrinkled wrists, it takes an uglier form in a northern city sprawl. It breathes in the edges of tempered glass that embellish skyrise buildings, but you only see it when sunlight bounces off the sidewalk. It is gentrification and antiquity, a bitter combination so beautiful you won’t mind the stain it leaves on your teeth. How can a color so perpetual mangle itself so?