In a few months, I would become a mother
myself. Drove to her home, eager to spend
the day with my own mother. Tried to ignore
the deepening crevices in her face, arthritic

knuckles that still pounded dough to make
dumplings for others. Late afternoon, we perched
upon her kitchen stools, sipped chrysanthemum tea.
Her voice was quiet as she recalled leaving her dear mother

decades ago, toddler on hip, for a new life overseas. An unspoken goodbye that shimmered like silk between them. Sorrow distorted her face, the words strangled in her throat: Lao Lao, your grandma, had shuffled from room to room, stunned into silence, the roar of this impending

distance already drowning out my pleas for her to somehow understand. I was leaving her, perhaps forever. Her fingers had trembled as she gifted me a parcel containing two homemade qipao dresses and three tiny outfits for you –
a toddler who would grow up without ever knowing her grandma.

I watched my mom as she sat in her kitchen, shoulders slumped.
I could see how this loss broke something in her.  Still, I made
no move to embrace her. Apathy bloomed in my folded arms
and shifty eyes, a feeble attempt to shield myself

from her palpable pain. Didn’t realize that I would be steeped in it
a mere few months later. Didn’t quite know then how to measure the distance between these wounded souls spinning out, unsure
of which direction was ‘home’ and unable to turn back.

In this tale of three mothers, I now see the steadfast thread
of Your handiwork stitching together burdened hearts
spanning seas, lands, the spaces between. It was Your grace
that carried us — and only with You, did we each learn surrender.

I slip from the low thrum of this dream-
state on the first dawn of a new year, ponder

my dead father's visit: his robust body a vision
of health once more, not a glimmer of glioblastoma

poised to invade his cells, to proliferate
loss in the strange sanctuary of his mind.

Time exists in the in-between, and I feel it
threaten to slip away even as he solemnly coos,

cradles a crying infant I know to be mine; could it
possibly be a sign that this one will finally be

viable? Perhaps this time it could stay, not eye the exit,
entirely too eager to be carried away with the receding tide

I know so well. For once, I will myself to feel it all
fully, a foreign freedom gently nudging me to revel

in each flicker of hope before the unfolding of another
sterile, somber era. I resolve not to think of its high walls

that cloister at first, then eagerly enfold me in a cold,
colorless cocoon. I pause in lemony light as my eyes

adjust to the still shadow of an eclipsed unknowing, at last
allowing the unfamiliar dew of peace to settle upon me

In a vivid dream I beheld (held) you, as I had for weeks.
Your solemn eyes peered at me, perpetually seeking
answers that elude me still. No goodbyes were uttered,
or perhaps they drowned in the fair company of regret

One year prior, a false fatherly figure had towered over me
gleefully binding me with honeyed words and a dark
fortuneteller's bemused smile, haughty in his prophecy
that the little bump below my palm meant nothing, really

The light in my eyes is already fading; even now
I tread lightly, shrinking from cold condemnation
seeking out half-truths in the cavity left behind
by you, quiet fawn, unable to witness the morning dew

I waited alone in the sterile room
for the surgery, too stunned to even

consider the word ‘goodbye’. Instead, my legs
shivered against the stirrups, as I prayed

hard for a miracle, for a giant "aha!
Just kidding!" moment from the expanding

universe that would never be large
enough to hold space for you. Pity

I received from the ones closest to me,
words murmured to soothe. Yes, I was

grateful — still, in the cloying silence
that crept in months later, I realized:

I alone was left to somehow trudge through
the thick muck of this loss. They expected me

to swim and rise above, and I did, all the while
hoping the currents would pull me under. How

could anyone else truly know what it's like
when your very own body becomes a thief

who turns         hateful           against you,
prolific cells with cold fury driving your demise

to ****** up the very thing
you wanted more than life itself?

Growing weary on the road,
respite seemingly out of grasp, wild
eyes cast their silver-yellow sullen

warning to the ground below as we crane
our twisted necks up: a meager offering
to the ones who walked the path before

Horned owl, languid head turning, collects
our astonished gasps like cold gleaming
rubies once tossed into a ravine or river —

nearby, the fog rolls in: curious bystander
ever intent on pulling the heavy curtain aside
to devour the last tasty morsels in the thrill

of a bygone moment — reckless and ripe
with the bloodstains of youth, the hunger
departing and returning in an instant

I read of your passing and paused mid-bite.
The world seemed to grow colder, but you knew
it was time to begin your next adventure, one
far beyond this familiar world we had shared.

Scientist — no, pioneering champion —  
in the fight against cancer and diabetes,
you were humble even in your brilliance.
A giant among men, a heart greater still.

I can only think of each time you passed
me in the hallway, your shy smile luminous
even as you ducked past me as if afraid
I might start speaking about what we had both

lost so long ago. You had always been my late dad’s
favorite boss, and I remember the thoughtful albeit brief
email you sent me when the cancer took him, expressing
your sorrow that a great scientist and fellow man had left

this cruel world far too soon. Now you join him
and I picture the two of you, both clad in white lab coats
colliding in an awkward embrace, eager to update one another
on all that the other had missed from the other side.