the baby in her and me

-

where does one end and another begin?


one day, i met my grandma as a baby,


i’m not sure how or when it happened—

i mean, i did glimpse

the slivers of shedding over time:


felt the soil beneath us shiver,

the networks of mycelium unspooling underground—

tenuous threads which

unravelled, untethered


i traced the liver spots

clouding her membrane,

dissolving into misplaced meals and names


i spied the silver streaking across her eyes,

ancient stones which no longer recognised my own


——


that one day,


the baby in me

met the baby in her


who forgot she loved

the baby in me,


who forgot how the baby in her

once loved me as a baby—


the baby

in her and me


——


she mumbles blithely to herself nowadays


in a primal, forgotten language


perhaps when one tongue is mislaid,

another is made


perhaps there is nothing

to lose or gain



i dab away the dewdrop in her eyes

and bring a cup of warm milk to her lips


i stroke her hair softly


just as she did when i was a baby


just as the baby in her

once loved the baby in me


——


sap dribbles down ginkgo leaves,

the alder tree hides a fossilised pip—


in the winter

humans age like trees, only backwards,

dissolving back into the raw pap of living



perhaps


to grow old means to peel, not to thicken,


to whittle away withered bark,

weathered rings,


to unearth the fleshy pith within—


pulsing, pulsing, pulsing


——


and even if she forgets me,

that is okay


i will remember on her behalf—


her


tang yuan,

abacus seeds,

lotus root soup,

pumpkin porridge


(all handmade from the freshest morning produce

from the Marine Parade wet market)


her / our


sturdy, firm hands,

powerful timbre,

candid speech,

solitary, proud

nature


(all concealing a tender, twilight heart

for overlooked and outcast creatures)


——


the baby in me remembers


whenever i whispered gibberish in her ear,

she somehow knew


i wanted butterscotch candy


(which reminds me—


whenever she tells me i’m pretty,

i tell her it’s because

i inherited her peculiarities)



and in our last memory


the baby in me will remember


how my first shout,


resounding from ground

to high balcony,


was calling out

to the baby in her—


“Jia Jia”


“Jia Jia”


“Jia Jia”

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