In Hong Kong, My Grandmother Picks Up the Phone

I have not seen her since the stroke
that made her forget she was a smoker,
the way she let the smoke dash out of each syllable
like a puttering engine,
the stroke that caused her
to forget her addiction to the mahjong table,
her calloused fingers polishing the sharp ivory,
the grooves that formed the peacock feathers.

She lost her suspicion
that her sons and grandsons spent more time
with the in-laws,
a fear that they would be kidnapped,
as if from the carriage,
into lesser families.

Now she sits with her granddaughter,
watching cartoons.
I would love to see her now
and ask if she remembers
when she argued with me
over my under-appreciation of rice
(a cardinal sin),
or if she recalls when she was 34,
threatening to jump from her third floor apartment
over an argument,
perhaps about oolong tea.

Or if she remembers
painting her eyebrows daily
after plucking them bald,
the ritual stroke
of the pencil above her eyes
as if to sheild them
from the worried years,
or to write over them sternly.

Today, on the phone with me,
she laughs on her unmade bed,
an emaciated buddha,
happy with the soft mangos
that wait on the bedside table,
with the son who brought them,
with the stout odor rising,
the skin so ripe it could wrinkle off.

Jimmy Lo lives in Atlanta with two cats and can often be found sitting in public areas with a sign that says "TELL ME YOUR STORY". His previous work has appeared in Stirring and The North Avenue Review. He plans to attend writing school in the Fall of 2003.