New York City is too much all at once—
Flashing lights, overlapping voices,
Cacophonic waves crashing over me,
Broken glass memories slicing my skin
As I fail to assemble the fragments back into order.
.
The photo at the center of our mantelpiece: my mom, nine years old,
A new orange coat, which she wore until she was eleven,
accessorized with a wide smile,
Hands on her hips, ready to face the new city—
Before the cold of winter shattered over her,
Before her “friends” taught her English profanities as a joke.
I wore that coat too, outgrowing it at seven,
My nutrition better than hers.
.
New York City comes in flashes—
FAO Schwarz, its giant piano, now long gone,
Buying baby wipes for my a-gong
(“Mommy, don’t buy the ones with the baby on the front,
I don’t think A-gong would want them…”)
And canned shrimp for his cat,
$1 pizza slice, oil dripping as my mom folds it in half,
The Ten Ren tea shop, giant golden urns looming in my memory,
now no larger than my torso.
.
When my a-gong died, we booked a hotel near the 9/11 memorial,
Square empty spaces where the towers once stood visible from the window
As Jack’s death in Titanic played out on the TV above my parents’ bed.
We cleaned out my a-gong’s shoebox apartment, sorting through moth-eaten hoodies,
Realizing the homecare aide, William, stole the rice cooker.
Noodles at my a-gong’s favorite restaurant,
Though the last few years he only left home to go to the hospital.
The owner’s toddler in the corner, iPad blasting,
I stared into my bowl of soup, watching beef fat float,
Swirling as I dipped my spoon in the murky broth.
