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.
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
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