You dream of apathy
You fear you will not cry at his funeral
Thus, in six months you must learn to love
Cancer is a slow way to go
You dream of love
Two young vendors across a red dirt road
For Popo he’ll take on her three children
For Gonggong she’ll run across oceans
You dream of a new home, on a new shore
like Gonggong and Popo once did,
skimming gold, burning boats, soaked and shivering before a mob shouting,
“We don’t want your kind here!”
You dream of quitting Cantonese lessons
Mom tried so hard to keep you connected to your roots
Across the dinner table, Gonggong cackles and coughs
at your silly faces, your speechless game
You dream of his red dirt village
So many stories you might carry on
if only you could say more than yes and no
Then one oxygen tank is too little
You dream you die
You mourn your unmade memories; you hope
this means he might live
A tree grows over your grave
You dream of Mom
at thirteen years old
Bleeding, bruised at Gonggong’s hands
Decades pass; she will not mourn
You dream you survive
as does Popo, some neighborhood children, and your dog
You couldn’t save them all, so you chose them over him
It’s okay, he’ll die soon anyway
You dream you visit Gonggong
frail body lost among oxygen tanks and humming machines, you remember
his wheezing cackle, Mom’s scars
You linger to the side; Popo reintroduces you twice
You dream of static between sisters
He’s too far gone to request euthanasia
Only now—facing a man tired, confused, silenced—
Yiyi regrets telling Mom, howcanyoubesoheartless?
You dream, “Today’s the day”
An hour later the family gathers,
folding chairs form a circle
You stare at their dry eyes
You dream of 49 days of mourning
but the temple is empty of relatives with excuses
The few “mourners” loiter in colored tees and summer shorts
Popo’s lonely sobs echo
You promise to speak with your Popo
She shows you his ashes beneath the tree
She asks if you’ve seen him in your dreams; she has
As if a thousand dreams can be so simple as: yes
She smiles
