Your Book

(for my grandmother's diary)

You left behind a book

of your most precious memories

some thoughts you held,

written down

like this poem,

I'm reflecting upon.

I flip each page

like I’ve uncovered an ancient text

at an archaeological dig.

These symbols had meaning.

What did they want to say?

I touch them

as if I could feel your hand

moving across the paper

that I might understand

these scribbles in pen.

I see my mom.

I see me.

even my father

written in between

familiar to me,

but distant to you.

Bridging two worlds

was never easy.

I know.

And I still feel guilty.

As a child, I thought

if we dumped ants on your head,

you’d wake up again.

My mother scolded me,

her eyes swollen

as if the ants had bit her instead.

I should have known.

But I’ve always pretended

not to.

Like now.

As I close your book of dreams,

I’ll pretend

and treasure

what’s within.