my cupped hands

Every now and then I bring you up in fondness, 

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.