Patchwork

(For my grandma and mother)

I pick up my grandma’s thread
To continue her patchwork
With the stitches of forever changing colors
In the always passing seasons
Falling into the never ending rains.

I want to stitch a simple flower
Sitting in a quiet corner
To hold the hands of my grandma
Without her having to shed a tear.

Grandma,
I am coming back
From a cloud
Full of fantasies and desires.
Grandma,
They are not important.
Look !
My hands are empty.
They are good at catching the silly rains
Falling in wrong seasons
Confused
By air pollution
And global disturbance of greenhouse effect.
Grandma,
Where a re you going to put me and my silly rains
On your patchwork ?

Grandma,
We have traveled the longest distance
To arrive at the beginning,
When ma wrote me,
"Grandma thought she was dying on her way to the emergency in the ambulance,
She said,dig out my saving inside the pillow to buy her a golden ring."
Grandma,
My tears are like the falling rains.
I do not need a golden ring
Neither from your blessing
Nor from the promise of a rose garden.

Grandma,
Look !
My hands are empty.
They are holding the silly rains
Which reflect the lost souls
Of the distorted children
Always success
For wrong reasons.
Grandma,
We have been working hard
To climb social ladder too busy to touch the hearts.
Grandma,
We are the generation of
Pollution in the heads,
Our hearts are the handicaps.

Grandma,
I am now stitching a cloud
Flying home on P.A. 747
Dropping a promotion and a double pay
Like the falling rains.

2.
I pick up my grandma’s thread
To continue her patchwork
With the stitches of the forever changing colors
In the always passing seasons
Falling into the never ending rains.

I want to stitch a beautiful flower
Standing up in a forgotten corner
To comfort my mother
Without her having to worry about our separated paths.

Ma,
I am leaving
For the distant land
Filled with rains and rainbows like ours.
Ma,
It is a lonely journey.
Look !
My hands are full.
They are good at sowing seeds in the strange land and the deserted soil,
Pampered
By the rain watcher
And the sprout sitter
Who just want to see beautiful flowers.
Ma,
Where are you going to put me and my flowers
On the patchwork ?

Ma,
We end up on the other side of the universe
By taking the first step from home.
When pa wrote,
"Your ma is upset, you are writing and speaking another language. She said, tell her don’t marry a foreigner."
Ma,
My tears are like the falling rains.
What are languages ?
We are just babbling
In the acid rains.
Why don’t you listen to the tone
Which has no consciousness
Except feeling.

Ma,
Look !
My hands are full
Of flowers transplanted to the foreign land
And turned into a new breed of world wonder.
Ma,
We are the children
With no identity.
Ma,
We are the generation of homelessness
Trying to believe homelessness is itself a modern home.

Ma,
I am now stitching a bamboo bush
Standing next to the dogwoods shoulder to shoulder
In the falling rains.


Oct. 13, 1990
Stony Brook, New York