In her final address, my mother
said I will always love you.
How gentle her voice, as if she was now,
near death, capable of approximating
the heart of a daughter. My mother
was not steadfast. In our first winter
in America: I don’t love you anymore.
Snow hid the see-saws, pines, and Buick
parked outside our two-bedroom.
Because I had shouted loudly about
scissors, the glue. Surely she was
preparing me for survival in this
country. I was the youngest and still
unclear where we lived or what papers
were beyond the newsprint I colored on.
She’s crazy my father explained.
He called that whole generation
of Chinese crazy. Every day, people
were denounced and beaten he said
calmly. You would go crazy too.
So I tried to be grateful after I cleaned
a wound on her foot with gauze and
hydrogen peroxide, then taped it up,
securing her for the next night when I would
clean it again. My mother was bright
with the pleasure of foresight.
She rooted through her purse
for a twenty-dollar bill. Oh Esther!
she said, It’s so fortunate we didn’t
abort you.