On The Couch With Būbū Neien

After six years of living in Hawai’i,

I return to Majuro to find myself

sitting on a couch

with my grandmother, my būbū Neien

sweating in jeans, my hands folded tight

while questions nag the bones of my skull.

Crouched coughing,

hacking, fidgeting

with her embroidered handkerchief, she

is a paper doll, crumpled

into a heap, shivering

in the heat.

Her dark bruised skin melts

away from her face.

My grandmother has tongue cancer.

Words

are ripped

from the belly

of her throat

before they can be born.

Before they can flutter

in this space

between us —

an unturned layer of earth I

can no longer cultivate.

I can’t speak fluent Marshallese.

English syllables accent

the walls of my voice, pronounce me

Ashamed

so I bury my native tongue

beneath a borrowed one.

The silence roars

between us like

the steel fan spinning sunlight

across her red linoleum floor

and I wanna tell my grandmother that I wish

our voices didn’t yearn for language,

that her stories could be netted

from the depth of her brown eyes,

a water that runs deeper

than the shallow

rattle of her breath.

I wish I could ask Būbū

if she remembers when pink

was my favorite color.

When my light-up sneakers squeaked

and ribbons on my tricycle streamed

pink. I wish I could ask

if there was pink

across the roof of the sun’s mouth

yawning over her childhood home —

Aelōn̄l‌̧apl‌̧ap, its reef a curved smile to the sky.

I wish I could ask about the ache

of fingers caked hard, crooked from days

of soap and iron washboards.

Būbū what was that like?

And when it turned to night did voices

scrape the tin roof of your dreams? The voices

with names fading like stars into darkness,

the warriors healers canoe carvers buried

before you?

So many questions

to be asked and answered, but

before my thoughts

can implode

Būbū Neien’s hand

reaches over

pats

my knee.

She smiles,

lips stretched

across crinkles.

She hands me a small bundle

of embroidered handkerchiefs

just like the one she uses.

She points

to the blossoming stitches

along the borders of the terry cloth and then

she giggles.

(She did them herself)

And suddenly sunlight

floods my insides

Thank you, Būbū,

I say, Kom̧m̧ool.

And she folds

the softness of her palm

over mine, rests

her head against my shoulder

with a sigh.

Three months later, in the coolness

of my dim Hawai’i room, I imagine

the white floral print that must be dancing

along her arms. I imagine

the crinkle of the paper flowers and

the bent knees, the fold of her palms

on her still chest and the water

of her brown eyes closed, finally.