Conversations with My Grandmother
1. I sit with my metal fork and knife. She eats with wooden chopsticks. The same ones she used to cook our meal. She doesn't use silverware because she says that the metal makes the food taste like blood. 2. Blood in her mouth reminds her of the Occupation, Of bloodshed, coming in rivers. Bodies by the thousands. Of tears. Fear, So thick it sticks to her throat like tapioca kuehs. The War, was a hard pill, no one could swallow. 3. We always sit in silence. Gulfs between us I am in London, Los Angeles, Vancouver. She is in Guangzhou, in Ipoh, in Shanghai. And I would be crossing 4 mountains to talk to her. 4. I think that she must feel like she climbs 10 more just to meet me halfway. 5. I am afraid to open my lips, mouth out syllables to her because I am afraid of what will fall out. That the teachings, sayings and idioms she taught me will fall into the Yangtze and be washed away into forgotten memories. 6. I cannot swim, I am afraid to touch water. 7. I am afraid that if I speak she will finally taste my tongue and realise that it is dry, papery with starch, cold and lifeless. Like snow, chilling you to the bone. 8. My Grandmother, doesn’t like cold weather.