Avery Wong

An orange piece —

I always knew,

When dinner was ready,

Without a single voice,

To scream my name.

There was an orange rice cooker,

That sang at our house,

When the day grew tired,

And let out its breath.

It sang to let us know,

That we would be gathering,

In clouds of steam,

That sang our family’s name.

        

A blue piece —

My grandma had these shoes,

That looked like,

The blanket of the sky.

Sapphire feet,

That clicked when they walked.

I loved the way her footsteps fell,

In the same way she spoke Chinese.

I used to wear them,

Waiting for the day,

My feet would be big enough,

To fill those sapphire shoes.

A red piece —

There is a bin under the draw,

That gleams when opened,

And crinkles when touched.

Inside are perfectly,

Folded triangles,

Of plastic bags

Waiting to be used,

Labeled with dozens,

Of grocery store names.

They sit,

And remember what they held,

So that they can hold again.

Carrying the expectations,

And passing them on.

These pieces are jagged,

Chipped,

Sharp enough to slice open flesh.

They’re mismatched.

Orange with blue,

Blue with red.

Yet pieced together,

They form a grainy story.

Of memories,

And traditions,

And homes,

And a person.

I belong to a mosaic,

Of blue,

And red,

And orange—

Imperfect pieces,

But how far, 

Do you have to stand,

Before the ordinary —

Becomes beautiful.