BY Aliah Jocelyn
To my Lola: I’m sorry this isn’t written in
Tagalog. I know how happy that would make
you. But even if it was, I still don’t think you’d
understand. I’m more sorry for that.
My grandma,
the white one,
was crowned Homecoming
Queen in the 60’s.
She grazed Salt Lake’s
football field with roses
pressed to her chest
and a crown on her head.
That same decade, your father was beheaded
by the Japanese, you were a baby,
strapped to your mother’s back.
She walked on bare feet, you watched
the sunset behind dust and smog
(it burned red and so did your fear).
My grandma,
the white one,
has 400 friends on Facebook
and wears Brighton jewelry to bible study.
You flew seven thousand miles
to the United States only to stay
locked inside the guest bedroom
with a dinner tray, watery eyes scanning subtitles
of FOX news while the rest of us ate
Thanksgiving dinner in the living room.
My grandma,
the white one,
brews coffee in a Keurig.
Every Sunday we sit
in her backyard, counting
hummingbirds while we sip.
The last time you visited,
you asked for tea.
I plopped a Lipton
peach-green packet
into a mug of hot water.
You told my father
it was the best tea
you ever had.
I cried while doing
the dishes, holding your
cup in my hands,
watching the only memory
of us I have
……………spiral
…………………….down
…………………………..the drain
……………………………………..washed
away
…………………..by white
…………………………………..soap and
….bubbling
……………………………..guilt