And do you remember when you lifted me with one arm, as if I were a backpack filled with air, as we walked to the park with the big yellow slide down the road?
And do you remember how you marveled at the corollas of seasonal blooms, and how you would say that we should take our lessons from flowers?
And do you remember when you beamed with unspeakable pride when I had achieved a milestone; the thought of me fulfilling a dream your generation never afforded you?
And do remember when you would stand in line at the fried taro puff stall at the Yèshì, in 37 C heat for nearly an hour, just so I wouldn’t have to? Or all those times when we ate red bean mochis to our hearts’ content?
And do you remember how you embraced technology? That you were one of the first in my family to get an email address, that you knew how to use photoshop better than I do, that change meant good things were coming?
And do you remember when you thought I was your cousin, recalling when you two had to hide when there were raids and searches, that I was just as confused as you were, timelines and genetics colliding, and how we both new that our stories were beginning to enter into Yin’s winter?
And do you remember when you had turned around in the home you’ve always known, and no longer recognized where you were?
And do you remember how your world began shrinking and re-expanding simultaneously, memories rewritten, scents and soundtracks and other details crystal clear?
And do you remember how time became irrelevant, how past and present were intertwined in a labyrinth?
And do you remember when you said that you had expected your (deceased) mother for dinner, that she was coming any minute, and that you were so delighted that all would sit together at the table again?
And do you remember when you would ask just for me, the girl you said who stole your heart, the one with elfish ears like yours, who has a nose of a bloodhound like you? Was it because you named me? And that your hums, like an oracle, were singing the poetry that you had envisioned it would come to mean?
The gentleness you couldn’t offer your sons became the inheritance you shared with me, much like my own children inheriting my own parents’ tenderness. Did you know at the time that blessings skip generations?
And if you did not remember those last months, those last years then, that all your memories were returned to you, the re-cognition occurred when you went home to the infinite? And that when you visit among the birds, within the wind that blows, within the leaves that fall, within the lunar festivals, at my altar, in my kitchen, that when I think of you, you are already waiting for me there.
Founder, spirit communicator and shamanic occultist