I Ask My Mother to Sing

She begins, and my grandmother joins her. 

Mother and daughter sing like young girls. 

If my father were alive, he would play 

his accordion and sway like a boat. 

I’ve never been in Peking, or the Summer Palace,

nor stood on the great Stone Boat to watch 

the rain begin on Kuen Ming Lake, the picnickers 

running away in the grass.

But I love to hear it sung; 

how the waterlilies fill with rain until 

they overturn, spilling water into water, 

then rock back, and fill with more.

Both women have begun to cry. 

But neither stops her song.