Father recalls his youth, a river in moonwash
colours for a day, friends who lent him
money and friends who didn't. All names
and nondescript faces over time like characters
in a thrift-store novel. I have heard this story
before, and I don't think I could make myself
believe that they are real, with fat bellies
and families and greying hair like my father now.
Mother tells me of the first time she went
to the mountains, how worried and
alone she felt away from her family among
a language with sharp nasal edges that she
didn't understand. How her uncle had a stroke,
why she could never forgive her sister
for dying. And my favourite, how one of her
classmates ate too many chillies on a dare
and fainted, how jealous she was of
his matchbox collection. Her eyes twinkle
and water as she shares accumulated histories
over tea.
I laugh in the right places. I smile and
play a role, hoping in vain that it would make up
for everything that I could not be.