Expired | Cindy Tran

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We’re thrilled to introduce you to a brand-new chapter in The Alembic’s history. For the first time ever, we’re offering an audio edition of the journal—an exciting new endeavor for 2025. In this edition, you’ll hear every written piece read aloud by Providence College students, bringing a new dimension and life to the written word.

That day, my mom and I went to the grocery store. Pick up
your feet, she scolded me as I dragged my winter boots through the
front entrance. The demand sounded harsher coming from her Viet-
namese tongue, but I knew it was just another bad habit I should learn
to break.
I stared at the black dotted lines peeking out of my mom’s
wallet of coupons. I’d been asking for my own pair of scissors, adult
scissors. Not the dull kid ones that folded the paper instead of cutting
it. I wanted to cut them crisp and proper for her. My mom called the
white rectangles “money,” even though I knew money was green and
had a similar smell to when I scraped my knee.
After my relentless begging, my mom let me sit in the
firetruck shopping cart. I drove it tot the pancake mix for breakfast,
the beef for dinner, the diapers for my baby sister, and finally to the
register.
Did you find everything ok? Said the cashier, an older white
woman, her bangles rattling loudly as she moved the items.
Yes. My mom’s high cheekbones rose, her eyes nearly closing
as she smiled.
It wasn’t the smile my mom gives me when I tell her how
amazing her food is. Or how pretty she looks in her new dress.
It was the same smile she gave to the man at the post office
before she turned to my older sister asking, what did he say?
This coupon is expired, the woman said.
My mom’s eyebrows furrowed. The bag of diapers lying on the
conveyor belt just doubled in price. Expired? No. It not expired.
The cashier slammed the coupon on the counter, her witchy
finger pointing at the date on the “money.” Expired, she said.
No, it not expired. I print out yesterday, my mom said.
It was true. I folded that “money” yesterday with my Dora
scissors.
Expired.
Expired like my mom’s native language in the country she
dreamed of raising her family in. Expired like the fierceness I knew
my mom had in her, but she didn’t want to cause a scene as the “crazy
immigrant woman.”
Expired.
My mom opened and closed her mouth, like she was searching for
the right words which she would have to turn into a language that the wom-
an could understand. And then she would have to speak those words in the
language.
I’ll throw it out for you, said the woman.
No. My mom hurriedly took back the “money.”
It won’t work anywhere, the woman shrugged as she bagged the
items.
And in response, my mom smiled.
That day, we left the store with an expensive bag of diapers, expired
“money” stuffed into the cup holder, and a silent car ride.