cold pack, it would be placed on my forehead. Now nothing could just be pulled out of the air, and the world was no different from what it was because I was sick. The rules were the rules. I still had to take tests and turn in papers even when my brain was not functioning under a fever of 105 degrees Fahrenheit and my sinuses were more congested than New York City's traffic. Everything had become my responsibility. I could blame the alarm clock for not ringing loud enough or accuse the flu viruses for attacking me, but the fact that I missed classes and got sick did not change. I was still responsible for everything. There was no way out. No wonder people used the term "homesick." It was indeed a chronic disease, a perpetual obsession. When I was eating my tenth bagel of the week, the smell of the steaming white rice and the pepper in the sour soup of Mom's home cooking and how they used to stimulate my nose and taste buds suddenly became vivid sensations. When I got out of the library at 11:30 p.m. and walked freezingly in the night air, the picture of the yellow light emitted from our cozy living room and the cream-colored couch where I spent much of my couch potato life there appeared in my mind. The desire to have a cup of hot cocoa and allowing the brown liquid to run all the way down through esophagus to the empty stomach became some unattainable dream. When my roommate turned on her superpower digital stereo to the maximum volume and the screaming voice of some hyper heavy metal singer filled our crowded dorm room, my little bedroom with Chopin's piano music seemed to become a lost dream. Where was I going to find those old memories, and when was I going to experience them again? After sacrificing two million brain cells on some stormy December days for the final exams and term papers, I returned home for a break. There was a certain strangeness and awkwardness when I met Mom in the Houston ...
