For my Grandma Sy
Summer 1998
The clam digger squats,
intent upon her hole
filling five empty gallons of soy sauce
with filter-feeding rocks.
She remembers
chanting nam-myōhō-renge-kyō every morning,
the gong praying for peace and for happiness.
Maybe this is a memory of war,
of eight years old in
evacuated Nagasaki, 1945.
Repercussions reverberate.
Oysters crowd around her
as if listening to her story
waiting in line to be cut and dyed
like so many little old ladies of West Seattle.
Her grandson thunders down the dock
prepubescent energy shaking loose
waves meant for higher tides.
waves meant for higher tides.
"Deni-chan. Comb he-ah."
Danny as in Daniel.
God is my judge
but not my interpreter.
No, He knocked down a tower
and turned tongues into trees,
contorting vowels unrecognizable
until only consonants remained.
The crossing of oceans splits syllables
forgotten across generations
but blood is saltier than oceans
and accents are heard
decades away from landing at shore.
I read billboards aloud because of you.
I have dimples because of you.
I have years of bowl cuts
and a love of unorthodox Thanksgiving dinners
and a grieving sadness every Valentine's Day because of you.
I was ten.
Your daughter tried to make
me read The Joy Luck Club
to understand you
to understand her.
I couldn't get past the cover,
but I could see her tears.
And still you sit there,
only now, you gather
dust on the bookshelf,
name engraved in the family shrine
across the Pacific,
your company oyster shells
painted with googly eyes
and plastered with striped feathers,
the kind of face only a child could see.
I am still thundering.
I am still making waves.
Digging down to my roots
I am looking for you.
And I am finding myself.
