This is the most she has ever said
about the year she left. (I point
to what I can’t say.) And, to complete
the story she reminds me, this is the most
she’s ever told me. This December,
she reminded her own mother,
“I am the only person who can tell the story
of my departure.” Though this is my own fault,
I wasn’t at the table. This country
doesn't exist for me without the story
of how we come to it. For my mother, it's endless
return. Friday afternoons, we lay out cost/
benefit analyses of where she'll retire. American
that I am, I insist, it's not too late to register
immense joy. Often she evaluates
the past. She doesn't remember the demands
of the first uprising—only that everyone
was so willing to die after exam week.
Mom explains, even protesters become
corrupt public servants. Mom also says
public servants really believe in their work,
so please trust America’s institutions.
Her mother’s advice: if she stays in America,
she'll die alone. This reveals something
about myself I'm not ready to describe.
Still, I complain that I can get better
Filipino food in LA. Or, more plainly,
I don't want to eat alone.
