Portsmouth Square, 1966
In the picture, I am nine months old,
tight white
bundle in red booties
carried out for a walk in the park. You are a thin
fortyish woman in cat-eye glasses
and a blue chemise,
young enough to be my mother.
You were the one who woke before dawn
to feed me, and the one who now waits
for me by the window in the evenings.
My mother and I were the packaged deal
you sent for: Hong Kong bride with child on the way,
the marriage that would save
your oldest son from Vietnam.
So, when my mother arrived
in this country, hunch-shouldered
and sway-backed, her five-month pregnancy hidden
under a small beaded sweater, you boiled
angelica root and whole chickens for soup,
and promised to bring her mother and sisters
to America. Later, after she complained
that the constant crying tore at her heart,
you moved me into your room
across the hall, tied me
down to the crib with rope.
In this picture, I did not know
who my mother was. I will not know until
almost three years later, dragging
a blanket from our room,
I see a beautiful woman in floral pajamas,
bending over to light
the furnace in the hallway, her powdered face
glowing from the flame. I will ask you
who the woman is, and you will answer,
she is your mother.
Priscilla Lee
Grandma and me in 1966
Grandma and me in 1989