Chopsticks- A Memoir by Vivian

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When I was five, my grandmother placed a pair of chopsticks in my hands, the slender bamboo smooth against my small fingers. “These are more than tools,” she said, her eyes gleaming with wisdom, “they’re a bridge to our ancestors.” The chopsticks, delicate yet unyielding, danced like whispers of history. My brow knitted as I struggled with an action that seemed so simple before. “This takes time,” my grandma reminded me. Over the years, they became not just an instrument of eating, but a quiet thread connecting me to my heritage, tethering me to the heartbeat of home.

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