that I pour on my rice
and the whole time
Samnang is sitting next to me
not Serey
and she doesn’t even seem to mind
before we leave
I take the restaurant’s card
and slide it into my wallet
later I will place it in the box
that Gramps made
as my first real American treasure
after we eat and I’ve had
like seven cups of tea
around six o’clock
just as Samnang promised
we leave
he drives around neighborhoods
dropping people off
finally Serey, too
then it’s just us in the car
quiet
as we drive out of Lowell
past the huge homes
of the former mill owners
Samnang says
sorry it’s a little late
you must be worried about your mom
yeah, a bit I say
but in truth this whole evening
has been a vacation
from worrying about my mom
after a pause
I can’t help myself from asking
just to set things straight—
so
how long have you and Serey
been going out?
and I hold my breath
going out? he says
we’re not
ex-girlfriend then? I say
not really he says
everyone in the dance troupe . . .
we’re friends
like family, you know?
but I think back and say to him
that night your mom made dinner
at Chris and Beth’s
she said something about Serey
Samnang waves a hand dismissively
my mom thinks Serey and I are a couple
or a maybe couple
or a could-be couple
’cause I took her to the prom last year
and I’m thinking prom?
ex-girlfriend wasn’t far off
well, are you? I ask
a couple?
Samnang sighs
shakes his head
my mom wishes it
and Serey and I sometimes fake it
because Serey has a boyfriend
from the community college
that her parents don’t know about
so it helps her get out of the house
if she goes with me
and now I’m totally baffled
you fake it? you pretend you’re together?
he nods
do Beth and Chris know you aren’t?
he tilts his head
I don’t know
what about the other dancers?
Samnang says
oh, they know Serey has a boyfriend
and it’s not me
we come to YiaYia’s street
and Samnang stops at the corner
then doesn’t proceed—
he’s looking at me
you’re going back to Japan, right?
I nod
January, right?
that’s what your grandmother said
the day you had the migraine
I try to read the meaning in his eyes
lit by dashboard and street light
I think we’ll be here the full year
my parents don’t say anything
about January anymore
Samnang says
you want to go back?
and I say well, yeah, that’s my home
and after the earthquake and tsunami
I just feel like I should be there helping out
like it’s wrong to be here
I tell him about Madoka’s aunt
just found
and her cousins
and their destroyed schools
I’d be more useful in Japan I say
I hear you he says
then shifts in his seat
well, tell your mother and everyone
hello and I hope she recovers fast
and it’s not till after I get out of the car, wave
and he’s driven off that it occurs to me
when he asked if I want to go back
there was another way
I could have answered
like I derailed a conversation
that could have been
Mom is able to walk a bit
the next day
and after school
I help her take small steps
up the sidewalk
as far as the stop sign
then back again
down the street
on the other side
after that
she’s exhausted
but it’s warm enough
for her to sit on a lawn chair
wrapped in a blanket
with a cup of hot yuzu tea
bathing in the afternoon sun
before it starts to drop
I sit with her
but she doesn’t let me stay still for long
insisting that since she can’t work I should
she makes me grab a rake from the garage
and rake leaves into piles for YiaYia
which I do
but Mom tells me I don’t rake right
don’t put enough strength into it
don’t know what I’m doing
which is true
well, duh, I want to say
I was raised in Japan with yards
so small we picked the leaves out by hand
but I don’t
I’m sweating
shedding layer after layer
scarf, jacket, sweatshirt
as I make a huge pile of leaves
beside her chair
so she can smell them
and reach down
to touch them
the colors are more intense
in Vermont she says
and I wish we could see Vermont
before the leaves drop
before the snow
a little later she gets chilled
I help her inside, get her set up on the bed again
then find Dad who shows me how to rake the leaves
onto an old sheet and carry the bundle
over my shoulder to a compost pile
Dad is here till the weekend
Gram and Gramps staying nearby
cousins and old friends
of Mom’s and Dad’s drop by
and YiaYia’s house is full of traffic
our meals noisy
though Mom is often
too exhausted to join us
there is not much time
to think of poems
or even scribble
in my journal
but sometimes like a meteor
a streak of thought
or a poem line
shoots through my head
but by the time I open
my journal
late at night
it’s vanished
when I see Samnang at school
I try to stop to talk
say more than hey
even though there isn’t time
between classes
for much more than hey
I ask him about the school dance club
if he’s friends with anyone in it
if he knows Tracy or Clai
re or the two guys
but although he danced with some of them once
he doesn’t know anyone well
we make plans to have pizza
after our work at the Newall Center
on Wednesday
but it turns out that Wednesday
is Gram and Gramps’ last dinner with us
before they return to Vermont
and I’m supposed to come straight home
after seeing Zena
I beg
offer to get up early
for a farewell breakfast
tell Dad and YiaYia I’ll be back
in time for dessert
but there is no getting out of this one
Samnang can come here Dad says
when I explain the pizza plans
I think on that
but say
never mind
it’s okay
Wednesday I take the bus to the Newall Center
since Samnang has a gymnastics team meeting
and will be late
Zena’s not in her room
so I grab the letter board I prefer
not the one hanging from her chair
and an aide tells me she’s waiting
in the library downstairs
where she is
but so is another woman
leafing through a magazine
Zena spells that it’s o-k
but I feel strange
without privacy
I read Zena a mermaid poem
by Kim Addonizio
from the point of view of a mother
watching
dreaming about
and thinking of
her fifteen-year-old daughter
I say I was searching for mermaid poems
but more than the mermaid
I really liked the metaphor
of the girl’s face as a lure
that pulls the mother
from her darkness
next I read aloud the one
by Naomi Shihab Nye
about the mother who tells the daughter
you know you’re going to die
if you can no longer make a fist
I look at Zena’s hands
clenched immobile atop her always folded arms
and tell her you’re fine—you’ve got good fists
I tell her I like the line in this poem about
the girl grown up
still lying in the backseat as an adult
behind her questions
I tell Zena I chose these poems
because they had a mother and a daughter
one poem from each perspective
and in each the mother or the daughter
is the other’s lifeline in a way
and because of her window poem
about the family posing for a photograph
and because of meeting her daughter on Sunday
but then the woman across the room
the woman who’s been leafing through magazines
startles us by saying
I had two sons—
if I’d had a daughter
she’d come see me
I nod, say well . . .
and ask Zena if she’d like to write a poem
about being a mother or a daughter
or a mermaid or whatever
and Zena looks up
and I ask the woman with the magazine
if she wants a piece of paper
to try a poem, too
but she says no, no
I just have sons
and even though I explain
that she can write a poem
about her sons
or about being a mother
or being a daughter
she still says no
I just have sons
I ask Zena if she wants to use
the computer attached to the chair
but she insists on the letter board
so I go down the list of colors
and start spelling Zena’s poem
which doesn’t have a title yet
letter by letter
word by word
Zena spells
like this poem was just
sitting in her head:
my stroke beached me like a whale on hot sand
come home! my daughter called and called
but I couldn’t answer and finally she swam away
by the time I could look up to talk
and tell her to lean over my face
so I could feel the tickle of her hair
she no longer felt like my daughter
come back! I called and called
but she swam away
with my sister
it takes several minutes
staring at Zena’s words
for me to comment
Sarah was raised by your sister?
Zena looks up
and I try to grasp
movement, speech, her child
I ask how old Sarah was
when Zena had her stroke—
she looks up at 6
I suck in my breath
try to imagine Sarah growing up
with her mother in the care center
what about your husband? Sarah’s father? I dare ask
l-e-f-t she spells
2 m-o-n-t-h-s a-f-t-e-r
I try to hold my tongue
but can’t help saying jerk!
and Zena looks up
but it’s great that Sarah comes to see you I say
n-o-t o-f-t-e-n Zena spells
then adds
m-o-s-t-l-y o-n-l-i-n-e
online?
well, that’s good! isn’t it?
and as I recite the colors and letters
Zena spells
s-e-q-u-e-l
s-h-e s-w-a-m b-a-c-k
w-i-t-h f-a-c-e-b-o-o-k
and this cracks me up
and Zena looks up
five times in a row
then the woman with the magazine
says her younger son was on a swim team
and won a medal in the backstroke
I turn back to the poem
and say to Zena
maybe you should call this poem
Beached
Zena looks up
and I write that on top
then I tell Zena that
I have to go, it’s late
I’ve texted Samnang
to say I’m in the library
but he still hasn’t come by
I tell Zena to write more poems about her daughter
if she can get someone to help her with her computer
and I suggest to the woman that she write about her sons
backstroke the woman says not the butterfly
I smile at Zena and her eyes seem to smile back
at room 427
I peek inside and see
Chea Pen’s bed empty
made up neat
Samnang motions me in
and with a glance
at the vacant bed says
Lok Ta Chea is in the hospital—
pneumonia
I put my hands together
do sompeas to Leap Sok
I’m so sorry I say
I hope your roommate
returns soon
and Samnang translates
then with Samnang not making to leave
I’m not sure what to do
after a while I point to a photo
beside the bed of some ruins
Angkor Wat?
but Samnang points to the painting by the mirror
&n
bsp; that’s Angkor Wat
then at the photo by the bed
this is Wat Banan
the one with the long steps up
ah, I wish we could see that view
I say, and Leap Sok nods
and Samnang nods
but neither speaks
so I ask what they worked on today
Samnang says
a memory from when he was a monk
most Cambodian boys
used to become monks for a while
many still do
and he was talking about studying
and living at a temple for six years
before the Khmer Rouge took power
Leap Sok murmurs something to Samnang
Samnang hesitates then says
he wants me to tell you
it’s still important
for Cambodian boys to become monks
even American Cambodian boys
and he wants me to tell you
that I should do it
maybe go back to Cambodia
to Battambang
to do it
oh! I say
but what about school? and dance?
I could do it when school’s off
Samnang says
anyway, here in America