When I was four years old, I nearly died while choking on a green Lifesaver.
The irony.
In those moments facing death, I thought of art. I had recently asked my parents what death was while staring at a Dali painting in the Museum of Modern Art. I can still recall the precise work of art. It’s not the one you’re thinking, not the one with melted clocks or hollowed faces. It was small and somewhat peaceful, and when I look at it now, I get the feeling of gold dipped chocolate melting in my mouth.
The green Lifesavers were my favorite.
My father saved my life that day, with his own two hands, and ever since then, he tells me to slow down whenever he sees me eating anything. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. The in-between meals. Even snacks. I thought only I would remember that childhood moment of fear, the seconds slowly ticking by when I couldn’t breathe, but while we inherit things from our parents, they also inherit from us. Our parents are scarred, too. Every fall, every split lip, every little bone broken while simply playing, was a wound taken personally, evidence of their failure to protect us.
I am the first person in my family to be born in America.
I know how to say “slow down” in five languages.