the things you taught me, the stories you shared,
how you taught me to not rhyme
and to walk on the ground with my feet bare.
I remember the nights I would cry during dinner,
my terrible recitation of multiplication tables...
I remember your stern gaze when I would talk back at Ma,
the softness in your eyes when we would go out for walks,
I remember your cheerful voice calling for me at your return,
the way you praised my omelettes even though they always burned.
But sometimes I forget your face. I have to strain
to remember the creases that caressed your forehead
and the tinge of yellow in your cornea faint.
I can't remember the way your voice sounded
even though I remember the exact words,
and sometimes I'm scared
that I'm wrong about that too.
I can hear the "burrah!" but not your dance,
the way you said "I love you" but not your demands...
I worry that your memories flow like water through my cupped hands.