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​Li Chen

I remember my mother's hands

brushing my hair in the morning
                 like the way she plays the piano,
                 high and low, firm and soft
 
She whispered in my ears
                 when I was little, my mother, your grandma also brushed my hair
                 like this, high and low, firm and soft
 
I asked her about my grandma
                 Was she beautiful, just like her?
                 silly girl, she said, your grandma was twice as beautiful,
                 though you never met her, what a pity
 
I asked her where she grew up with my grandma
                 It was a small village, she said, on the far far side of the ocean
                 in a humble house, where you could smell the sea, hear the rain
                 and everything in between.
 
She told me about the bright sunny days, and the calm sea
                 about watching the wooden fishing boats, lazy scattering
                 like the sleepy black dots in a timeless watercolor painting
                 O, the fish, the live yellow croakers
                  jumping off the boat to the hands of locals
 
She told me the story about the fish
                 braised in soy sauce, my grandma's specialty dish
                 tenderly sweet, and aromatically delicious
                 but no, my grandma wouldn't let my mother touch
                 Your brother's coming home from the war tonight
                 Let's wait for him, alright?
 
I remember my mother told me that she was staring at the fish
                 wishing, praying, my grandma's superstition
                 filling the kitchen
                 He's coming home any minute, he's coming home
                 bless him, with the sweet thoughts of home
                 bless the fish
 
My mother shook her head
                you never know, she said, you just never know
                how fast things can change,
                the hidden rage of the sea, soaring
                louder than the thunder
                the storm came faster than the lightning
                the earth was shaking, the house was shaking
                and the fish on the table was shaking
           
My mother said when the house was shaking
                 she was worried about the fish.
                 my grandma grabbed her hand running out the door
                 when she turned her head, the house collapsed
                 and the fish was buried in ash
 
I asked my mother about her brother
                natural disasters and war often come hand in hand, understand?
                My brother went to the war, never came back
                the house was gone, so was the fish.
March / April  2023

Barbara Daniels
Li Chen is a writer from Vancouver, BC. She's currently working on her debut book and MFA in Creative Nonfiction at the University of King's College/Dalhousie University.
Art: Aiyana Masla. Storm​. Watercolor
  
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