Mom and me after dinner.
Zip-ties loop and fasten
snug
with teeth gnawing in one direction,
irreversible,
clenching the stiff long tongue’s gaping tracks.
That’s how tightly motherhood
wrapped Mom’s bones
lined her womb
squeezed her palm.
She gave birth to a new role,
an immigrant’s handcrafting-
seamstress-
as she sweat[shopp]ed out three drops of life
from swollen temples.
Behind a facemask
blocked breath.
As a child I tried to dig holes into her soft joints,
plant cut-off locks of my hair
and water my way
deep
in hopes to grow a bond.
Roots never took.
It seemed as if she lived
in the same manner as her assembly-line counterpart,
shouldering
Dad’s heavy hammer-tongue,
my sisters’ and my pitless mouths
over and over,
holding on like this was her purpose.
Guilt stuck with me the way
conditioner cemented my scalp
the first time Mom had me wash my hair alone.
I emptied half the bottle onto my head,
expecting a mother’s love to mimic
shampoo-like effects
that lathered suds
overflowing.
I did not feel this softness from her,
nor did I give.
Yet recently
I’m experiencing that to regenerate the gap
between my branches and hers
means to dress in her heirloom seeds
as my own flesh.
Gold rings,
large coats,
bright blouses
she has maintained well in her closet,
she’s handed down to me.
Yesterday, she reached for my forearm
to balance her aging bones.
We briefly walked in unison and
for a moment,
I am reminded that
I’ve also inherited her foot size.
When asked if she would ever get a tattoo
she whispered,
‘I’m too old for those kinds of things,’
then smiled and finished,
‘but roses on my arm would look beautiful.’
About the Author: Connie Huang is a San Francisco native, born to a Chinese immigrant and working class family, where she draws much of her inspiration from. She’s part organizer (organizes with the Filipino and Chinese community), part educator (works in early childhood education), and part grandma (knits a lot). You may view her knit work at www.constersinc.weebly.com.
