DEATH Poem: To Grandmother, by Hoshiko Hsu

women in my family whispered
of wealth long after it had left their hands
as if calling its name would recall it

your daughter once told me over tea that our family used to be rich,
that we used to own a one hundred room mansion
in that Western style that was good
for the time
she told me that jade ashtrays lined the hallways and smoke —
the men in our family have always smoked —
wavered through the air

she never told me if you lived in the mansion too,
or if that too slipped from your hands before you could hold it

grandmother, did you know that your daughter is scared of water?
or that the women in our family have never known how to swim until me?

your daughter tells me that once, your house flooded
in the countryside where earthquakes were so frequent you had
seven pots for each little head to protect their crowns
she tells me that when the water had broken your windows and
risen to your chest, you told everyone
to cover their head with a pot hoping
it would help
your daughter tells me now over the stove
that you never learned to swim either, but that you still can’t stand
the smell of singed water because grandpa was smoking
during the waters rise

grandmother, did you know that the government took the house away
from us in 1974
and will never give it back?
or that the day you died your daughter sat in JFK and called the American Embassy,
shouting “return” until she was thrown from the lounge?
either way, your daughter told me yesterday over LINE that you died at home in your jade bracelets
and your most comfortable slippers
and a pot over your head

grandmother, your daughter tells me that you still don’t know my American names because
it never translated
over
but that you asked always for me, murmuring for the stars over Fur Elise
I wonder if you know that I never knew your name either, but that I called you ah-ma
and never pronounced it right, always dividing the words a syllable too early
and an ocean too far
to make it sound
like “a mom”
instead

grandmother, did you know that my father hasn’t smoked since I was seven and choked on a panic
attack on the freeway?
or that your daughter hasn’t dreamt of waves crashing over her since we walked the shore of Jones
Beach?

grandmother, did you know that earthquakes hardly happen in New York City, or that I take
mandarin in school?
or that i do not whisper of wealth, but I write it —
which somehow makes it realer?

grandmother,
when the time came, did you remember, beneath
that pot over your head

did you remember that your granddaughter
knows
how to swim
now?