Xiaojing

520-S17 : Process Piece

April 26, 2017 Draft

Where I Am From

I am from the disappointed look of Grandpa at my birth,

also from the final triumph of my mom
avoiding my adoption
by others.

I am from countless giggles,

while snaking up my dads back,
circling his neck,
whispering I love you in his ears.

I am from the new red-dotted suit,

fashionable and cool,
sewn by my ingenious mother,
wearing it, I am praised and envied by peers.

I am from sudden fidget of puberty,

from being mean and impatient,
about Grandmas slowness, clumsiness,
and blurred eyes.

I am from the weak but caring look

on her weather-beaten and wrinkled face,
as she waits at the gate alone to greet my afterschool return
while standing on her three-inch bound-feet and arching back.

I am from a long and chilly winter nights warmth

derived from Grandmas hands holding my stony feet every night,
like a stove flaming
in smiling dreams.

I am from Jingjing and Nan Wang,

childhood friends whispering and scheming together,
envying, helping, quarreling,
hurting and also healing.

I am from the mouth-watering desire

for instant noodles and ham,
despised as junk food by adults,
but the best food I have ever had.

I am from incredible vanity,

unwilling to walk out of the house,
because of an ugly short haircut,
crying and making trouble out of nothing.

I am from the school bed,

lying there angry about a pair of unwanted
white sneakers brought from afar,
no gratitude for my hungry and exhausted father.

Unspoken, he left my room,

sad and dejected,
his arched back was the final snapshot I have,
a bleeding swan song, a wound I still carry.

I am from the addiction of

splashing in puddles after rain,
and treading through channels,
water pumped from a well
winding into the vegetable fields.

I am from running carefree

on the endless green sweet-potato fields,
in step with the symphony of cicadas and crickets,
and tireless opera singer magpies.

I am from reaping wheat in nearby fields in the scorching summer,

from squatting there helping with my little hands,
collecting wheat seeds gushed out from a thresher in front,
along with stacks of wheat straws mounting behind.