BIPOC themed
Ahyi
Excerpted from: "In the Footsteps of a Thousand Griefs" by Wei-Wei Lee
1 minute read
ahyi
In Mandarin my father’s sisters were ever
gugu, gugu; a cheerful cluck of a word barely dusted off
twice a year.
Ahyi is brighter, more crisp, no less loving;
ahyi for my mother’s only sister
whose careful clever hands made
knit blankets and cakes and coffee, planted her own
winding garden,
scaled a fortuitous mulberry tree out in the middle of
absolute nowhere
to bring down the best, blackest berries
for us.
My aunt, my mother’s only sister,
ever only ahyi, ahyi,
so she has no name.
Not then, and certainly
too late now.
She taught me how to make dumplings. I barely remember
but we went to the market, her and little me,
putt-putting along slow
and then back home.
Wrist-deep in ground pork filling. She
showed me how to knead out the dumpling dough,
spoon in the filling,
fold it over and close, neat ruffled folds for the edge.
I barely remember
but I curled up on the couch before we were done
with all the rest,
was half-asleep when she came in
to pull a blanket over me
and turn out the lights.
Years later my hands remember the rhythm and routine
better than my memories do:
my dumplings don’t fall apart.
She might’ve taught me more, had we stayed family -
but no, best not dwell
on the memory
of ahyi.
pp. 9-10. Excerpted from: "In the Footsteps of a Thousand Griefs" by Wei-Wei Lee by permission of Poetry NW Editions. First published by Poetry NW Editions, copyright 2020.