Persistence. She’s a complicated thing.

To see her in the cramped storefronts with determinedly vibrant signs, in potholed alleyways lined with stacks of decrepit apartments, with the odor of spices and smoke wafting from the underbelly of this city; bitter nostalgia is inspired. 

Acrid rain splashes on her tongue when she asks for relief, made sickly sweet with the flavor of savory handmade chashao bao. There is no such thing as a handout here.

The ramshackle shops are her scars; ardently carved out of the unforgiving city, each a flame of defiance. They are puzzle pieces shoved against one another, edges rough and dull with effort, stacked in cramped disorderly shoebox patterns.

What anchors souls in a merciless foreign body? A hazy dream still sought, blood spilt from cracked hands, or an ache in their back mirroring the ache in their heart? 

Persistence. Is she a virtue or a vice?