I can barely remember
what I ate with her.
We had a large family
dinner two years ago, and I met
new relatives. My aunt’s sister, teaching
at her hometown college. The little brother
of my grandpa, owner of sprawling farmland.
I learned their names, tried to
pronounce them, but it was so hard
to stay focused. I was starving.
My grandma’s sister—the family’s oldest—she was
there, too. Her brothers and sisters
all passed away, except my grandma. She lost
her husband twenty years ago, once
champion swimmers together. After finishing
the bowl of rice, I began observing.
It was the second or third time I’d met her.
She looked just like my grandma, hair short and curly. Wrinkles
unfolding from the ends of her eyes. And her hands.
Like those crumpled medical history forms
covering her bones. All those crisp veins lining—
could I redraw the lines, once they faded?
When everyone was full, she hugged me.
Her grey sweater nesting my hair, I hugged
her back. Her hair held cooked rice—nothing
special, but it was.
I didn’t have her number, but often she swam
from my grandma’s phone. Her voice crisp
like rain on the kitchen windows.
I thought we would see each other again.
But next spring, my grandma lost
her sister, queen of rice.
Everyone came to the funeral, but I
felt like an outsider. The wind
covered the pool in petals.
April was full of rain and tears. I wasn’t sure
if I needed to cry. Outside, a hurricane
murmuring in the distance—I couldn’t
escape. So instead I watched my grandma blur
from her body into her sister’s, then back again.
