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we love you, but |
poetry about mothers, daughters and the sometimes unbridgeable space in between
ma is eating alone at the table in the breakfast nook,
some crackers
and her usual morning coffee. instant.
the kind you get from a big glass jar and mix w/ water
and maybe some milk.
they are watching their cholesterol now so skim milk it is.
the coffee looks a lot darker and thinner than it used to.
she dips the cracker in the coffee to soften it and sometimes
forget how long it's been in there while she reads the paper.
i see some big headlines
ab some celebrity's award season outfits.
this is saturday morning.
and every morning.
ma is sewing and putting the finishing touches
on a dress i was wearing for that year's musical.
was it "hello, dolly!"?
who can remember something from
half a lifetime ago.
she calls me over to try it on.
"why you do the musicals?"
"because they are fun and my friends are all in it."
"but you not good at it. always in chorus."
i still get embarrassed by the way she eats.
grandma used to tell me that i ate like her,
w/ my mouth closed, like a lady.
after working in the kitchens for such a long time
where there was barely any time for breaks,
ma scarfs food down, but her mouth is still closed,
so her cheeks bulks up and she
just keeps shoveling food in until she can't anymore.
because she always thinks she's running out of time.
or maybe because she doesn't want to say anything.
or maybe she feels she has nothing to say.
hey daughter,
i just wanted to call and explain.
your mom doesn't care
about your hair being long or short. it's just that...
after meeting your friends...
she felt that...
maybe...
you were coming out.
the year i turned 30 (and ma 60) seemed as good a time as any, i reckon
maybe,
it didn't happen sooner
because if we weren't fighting,
we weren't talking.
maybe,
because it's just not what asian families do.
or maybe,
i didn't know if i'd mean it.
a whole weekend had passed and
i still hadn't done it.
we are at the airport, at departures, at our awkward hug.
maybe, i'll just do it when i'm 40.
"love you, mom", i mumbled in english,
the words squeezed out of me by nervous indigestion
and caught both of us by surprise.
i had planned to say it in chinese,
and also clearly indicating that it was me who did the loving.
"love you, too", ma said, also in english,
a language she's never been able to grasp after almost 30 years in america.
and that was it.
the first time we said those words to each other.
out loud.
we haven't said them again since.
but maybe,
once is enough.