© Haorui Sun, BS, MSI
2002
My grandmother’s voice scratches through the phone line, all the way from Dalian
running past the sleeping roosters and between the dust-cloaked streets of rural China
to cradle me the same way I cradle the landline, dreaming of a way back home.
She tells me that I’ll learn English and make friends soon, that yes, she misses me, too, that the tree in our courtyard is finally thick with plump, crimson blooms – she wishes I could see it but she knows I’ll make her proud in the beautiful, new country.
2014
My grandmother’s voice cracks over the receiver and I realize that sometime between asking how tall I’d grown and wishing me a happy 18th birthday, the woman who split my hair into pigtails every day for six years had started crying.
My tears match hers and guilt coats my mouth,
relentless, cloying,
as I lie that she’ll see me again, soon.
I know the closest she’ll get to seeing me are glossy photographs
folded carefully into cream envelopes and released with a stamp and a prayer.
That night, I dream of glowing winter festivals with wind sharp enough to sculpt satisfaction, spirals of speared, sugared haw berries on street carts,
and the new moon gap between grandma’s two front teeth as she smiles back at me.
2020
My grandmother and I videochat for the first time.
We beam at each other, ignoring her shaking hands, her fading eyesight, the halting video quality, enveloped in the pleasure of seeing each other.
No words are needed, no flat, still pictures
Only smiles that stretch 6,800 miles with ease
a wealth of pride
an exhale of finally.