Wishbone
In the bedroom, the old Chinese sisters, my grandmother
and great-aunt, are shoving their folded dollars
into lucky red envelopes all morning.
My great-aunt is visiting from Canada,
widowed fifty years, and her only child,
a baby girl without hair, was found
dead one night, overfed
by the maid. My grandmother, the younger sister,
fills her house with four children
and eleven grandchildren,
complains about dying
every weekend.
Forty years, few facts have changed,
yet they are arguing relentlessly
again as they wait for my youngest uncle
to take them out for Sunday dim sum, the little bit
of heart over tea. You carried your son to me, piggyback.
No, my son was old enough to walk.
You gave your son to me, then you took him back.
No, you told him my village was full of cowdung
so he wouldn't come back.
In my family, this is our legacy.
Every generation, a child is given away for safekeeping
because of war, poverty, other children.
My mother gave me to my grandmother, and I was twelve
when my youngest uncle told me
Respect your mother because she has lost.
If she and your grandmother were drowning,
we know whose life you would save.
When the morning arguing boils off,
and every red envelope in the house is filled,
my uncle arrives, and the family stands
back as the two sisters push towards him
like knives over his heart.
Priscilla Lee
Grandma and my Great Aunt 1980's