The Wet Market

I miss the smell of the wet market. I miss the familiar rustic smells of the clothing and old second hand book stores. I miss the warmth and welcoming feeling it never fails to offer.

The wet market was closed for 3 weeks or so, and I haven’t visited it much since I came back for good. I used to go to the wet market a lot with my mother since I was a kid, and sometimes after that we would go to the supermarket to get other groceries and household products. Even after so many years, it still feels exactly the same. The only thing that has changed is that prices have skyrocketed like crazy. But these stallholders still sell the freshest and the best, and customers like my mother still pay the extra few dollars because it is worth it.

It even has its own little community. Familiarity breeds familiarity, and everyone knows each other. Relationships build and foster regardless of gender, age, ethnicity, shape or size. Everyone is welcomed, even if you’re new, you’d feel like people there treat you with kind of sincerity that makes you want to go back.

I stood by the fish stall which my mother always makes a trip to for the freshest fish. A granny came by to get some fish, probably for her children caught up with the working world, and maybe even for her grandkids whom she would want very much to grow up healthy and strong. The wet market is filled with people like her – mothers, fathers, grandmothers, grandfathers, daughters and sons – taking that extra effort on a Tuesday morning to get only the best for the people they love and care for.

Early morning, wet market love.

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