In the picture, I am nine months old,tight whitebundle in red bootiescarried out for a walk in the park. You are a thinfortyish woman in cat-eye glassesand a blue chemise,young enough to be my mother. You were the one who woke before dawnto feed me, and the one who now waitsfor me by the window in the evenings.My mother and I were the packaged dealyou sent for: Hong Kong bride with child on the way,the marriage that would saveyour oldest son from Vietnam. So, when my mother arrivedin this country, hunch-shoulderedand sway-backed, her five-month pregnancy hiddenunder a small beaded sweater, you boiledangelica root and whole chickens for soup,and promised to bring her mother and sistersto America. Later, after she complainedthat the constant crying tore at her heart,you moved me into your roomacross the hall, tied medown to the crib with rope. In this picture, I did not knowwho my mother was. I will not know untilalmost three years later, dragginga blanket from our room,I see a beautiful woman in floral pajamas,bending over to lightthe furnace in the hallway, her powdered faceglowing from the flame. I will ask youwho the woman is, and you will answer,she is your mother.
© Priscilla Lee. All rights reserved.