I've always been a bit greedy, like my mother before me.
She told me often of the summers she spent, hands outstretched,
Reaching for the longyan - a succulent refuge from the summer sun
(they drop the "y" in Cantonese)
Until she nearly tumbled from the balcony.
When she tells this story, she shakes her head, laughing,
Dark eyes glittering like longyan pits
Remembering
Her own mother's fear and anger
At the danger she'd put herself in.
Sweaty hands interlinked by the lake,
Pulling away at the whispers of incoming footsteps
Pulling up to our mouths to cover our greedy laughs
Greedy mouths, searching always for the pale flesh
Of the summer longyan.
There's a flock of hooded mergansers
Diving and bobbing for fish in the almost-February sun
I'd never seen them in real life before, only
In photos, in guides where they cackle and frolic,
Bright white crests opening and closing.
I make a joke about ducks being a symbol of love, and she
Stares at me for a moment. The white sail-crest falls, hands pull away
And she asks me what that meant, exactly. Well, you know,
Like you see with the wedding gifts.
Ah, she says, gaze drifting with the water, I guess so. But
Weren't those mandarins?
The blank sails rise,
Sheaf of paper, blanket of snow,
And I say nothing
Just twine my fingers through hers again
Stealing a moment of warmth
Before the next time I have to let go.