Childhood

It is dinner time.

Grandpa and I sit down as Grandma puts the dishes out. 

Big Yellow, the neighbor’s dog,

runs in from the front door. 

He is on time, 

always.

Putting his warm chin on my lap, 

he looks at me with his watery eyes.

We have our secret

under the table.

If I get caught up eating

for too long,

Big Yellow reminds me with his paw, 

tapping quietly.

Frogs are croaking 

in the watery fields outside,

calling me.

Finishing my last bite, 

I put down my chopsticks.

I chase after the fireflies under the stars,

and Big Yellow chases after me.

A year later

Every day, I walk home

alone

after school. 

Every day, Big Yellow sits

by a narrow log bridge.

How happy he is upon seeing me!

Together, 

we walk home. 

Another year passes

Across a big river,

Mother comes on her bike

to take me to another home.

“Bye, Grandpa! Bye, Grandma!”

With me sitting on the back seat,

Mother rides away on her bike.

Big Yellow runs after us.

“Go home, Big Yellow!” I cry out.

But he keeps on running, 

his tongue hanging out.

Big Yellow runs 

and runs,

until the big river blocks him.

The boatman kicks him away 

from our small ferry boat. 

On the riverbank,

he groans and paces, 

and becomes smaller and smaller

through my watery eyes.

 

[When I was little, the residents in our Chinese village kept their front doors open all

day. During meal times, my family would greet the villagers who were passing by with,

 “Have you eaten? Join us for a meal!” It was simply a courtesy. Rarely would any 

villager actually come in and sit down to eat with us; but, once in a while, someone

 would accept the invitation. Dogs and cats roamed free. Some of them were fed by 

multiple families, but their original owners were acknowledged by other villagers.]

(Also published in Mirror Flowers Water Moon, Fall 2020, page 14)