the calabash brothers 葫芦兄弟 are seven brothers who were born out of gourds planted on the calabash mountain. each a color of the rainbow and each with a special skill, I last knew them as children.

the red brother had infinite strength. he was one of the tannest kids in class, and we didn't know what his parents did. he liked to throw things and had a loud laugh.

the orange brother could see and hear far. he was a timid, migrant kid who's from an inland city. he shared my desk for a semester and could never looked at anyone in the eye. he'd ask me why I smelled nice, when I'd show up late and half asleep in the mornings, and I never knew how to answer.

the yellow brother was made of iron and an inpenetrable fighter. in first grade, when he was lunch captain, he forbade me from chewing with my mouth open. he bullied me to no end. "he only acted like that because he likes you," the white snake would tell me, but I could never believe her.

the green brother was breathed and inhaled fire. he transfered to our class in fourth grade, and the white snake fell in love with him at once. he was the second-best literature student in class after me.

the indigo brother was a water spirit, and could drink and spit out rivers. he was my dance partner when they asked me to lead and choreograph the fourth grade talent show. i vaguely remember holding his hand and doing flying poses on the desolate stage and for the very first time, hating my own body.

the blue brother was invisible; we knew his mom was divorced and he struggled at home, but how did we even find out about these things as children?

nothing was known about the purple brother, except that he was a different skin color: he might have been indian or white or black, but I don't remember. he caused a clamor when he showed up to our class while we were all lining up for tetanus shots, seventy little heads in the darkening hallway. he only stayed for a week.