Aaron Lindberg/Journal-World Photo

Book > Stories and Poems

Table of Contents | Sample Pages | Poems & Stories | Reviews

[ Poems ] [ Stories ]

Poem

First Time

(August 2003)

For the first time in five decades,
I cried when I said goodbye.

For the first time,
as long as I could remember,
my lips pressed tight on her forehead.

For the first time,
I thanked her but couldn't say why.
She didn't ask either.

In her wheelchair,
for the first time,
in tears,
she said,
" My good son,
walking a thousand miles to bid farewell,
we still have to depart."

~~~~~~~

Miraculously,
she is getting better after a month or so.

For the first time,
I see the aging sagging flabby skin on her body,
like patches of tender, moist, magnified cheesecloth.

For the first time,
hovering over her walker,
I rub lotion on her itching back,
now full of red, scratched, criss-crossed marks.
Slightly raised.

For the first time,
I see the gravity,
tumor and hernia on her belly.
For the first time,
I see some of the many
scars and incisions on her torso,
dark and light,
wide and narrow,
valleys and ridges.
I'm too scared to touch.
There is a block.

For the first time,
I see four ghostly white steel bars
connecting her shattered pelvis,
in an X-ray image.
For the first time,
I see ominous spots in shades of gray,
in her liver, bowel and kidney.
A detrimental sonogram
She does not need to know.

For the first time,
I comb her hair.
Much more silver than black,
soft like mine,
shining like a galaxy
in the universe of a dark green sweater.

For the first time,
I feel the depth of her fears and pain
on her face.
A sea of stormy wrinkles.

For the first time,
I have to use an affirmative voice
coercing her
to eat liquefied rice,
that she has no appetite for,
and medicine that she can't stand.
Shaking her head and body
like a wet cat.

For the first time,
fighting stormy conditions,
I feel the urgency
to catch some fish
to provide the only protein
she is willing to take.

For the first time,
I see her lying in bed,
two and four in the morning,
eyes wide open.
For the first time,
I wonder if she is contemplating
forgiveness and reconciliation.

For the first time,
she does not badmouth my dad or anyone.
"I can't remember!"
For the first time,
she has let go of her will to be buried,
in a city far away from dad.
Six decades of resentment.

For the first time,
laughing, joking and winning.
Mahjong occupies her four days in a row.
The best cure for any ailment,
they say.

It is lucky that we can say goodbye
for the second time,
I bend down to hug her.
She kisses lightly on my cheek
for the first time,
over five decades.
A total surprise.
I keep it to myself

And I kiss her forehead
for the second time.
No one in the family has done so.
Then one by one,
they follow
for the first time.

For the first time,
she and I
have broken a few Chinese traditions.
America shows us
that it is good to do so.

For the first time,
I need courage to express,
"I love you",
because,
in the Chinese language,
there is no equivalence
for loving a parent.

For the first time,
my family is stuck
with a rollercoaster;
never have crazed for one.
It is not up to us
how long and rough this ride is.
We live so far apart.

So little time left.
Still have to depart.

Top

Stories

• The Big Palm Leaf Fan
• The Journey of Marriage

The Big Palm Leaf Fan
(from Dreams of the Golden Mountain, p. 154-155)

Old Mrs. Lee took me home to her apartment in the projects by the Brooklyn Bridge. On the way she would say hello to her nosy friends who wanted to figure out who I was. She would just grin and would not say much.

Her studio apartment was small but well kept. The bed was by the window where it was gibing me the most light for depth and texture. The shin on her hands was so wrinkled that it reminded me of a bird's eye view of the eroded Dakotas Badland at sunset. It could cover three times the area if it were stretched. A lot of her clothes were sewn by hand and a few things were mended, like her palm-leaf fan. On the jagged scratchy curve edge of the palm-leaf fan, she had sewn a cloth strip.

She was as inquisitive about me as much as I wanted to photograph her.

"You own a restaurant?"
"No."
"You work in a restaurant?"
"No, I teach at the University of Kansas."
"You speak English?"
"I can get by."
"What do you do there?"
"I teach people how to take pictures."
"You are such a 'Lac Doi' (smart boy in Toi Sahn dialect), and 'Lanc Doi' (handsome boy) too."
I just smiled and continued to work a different composition.
"I have never met a kid like you. How old are you?" Picking up the palm leaf fan on the bedside, she gave a big smile. Then she began to fan, then asked, "Are you married?" I clicked the shutter.
"No."
"My granddaughter is 20 and is coming to see me tonight. Come over for dinner and meet her." I clicked another frame.
"I'll be leaving in a couple of days. Going back to Kansas."

She came from the Toi Sahn region at a time of poverty. A lot of the men had left home for America. Upon coming to America herself, soon her husband died. Being typically "successful," her children were professionals and lived for away from Chinatown. The grandchildren could hardly understand her Toi Sahn Chinese, let alone Cantonese and Mandarin Chinese. Old Mrs. Lee wanted someone like me to continue her Chinese lineage in America. I suspect her nosy friends knew about that.

Top

The Journey of Marriage
(from Dreams of the Golden Mountain, p. 157)

Uncle Fred came to California at the age of eleven doing house servant and restaurant work. At the age of eighteen, he decided to pay a visit home in China. In the Pearl River delta district, one had to ride many ferries. Upon arrival, on the crossboard towards the riverbank, he spotted his uncle. He asked him,

"Hey, Uncle. Why are you so dressed up?"
"I'm going to attend a feast."
"What feast?"
"A wedding feast."
"Who's getting married?"
"You are!"

Uncle Fred and Aunt Sue have been happily married since then. Simple folks have great joy. They ran a big grocery store and raised three children in a tiny town called Holtville, among vegetable farmers in the desert of Imperial Valley of Southern California.

Top