In the year of the rabbit, I carried Grandma’s old blanket from bed
downstairs and wrapped myself in Grandpa’s reading chair.
Firecrackers laughed from the TV in a distant city of gold and red,
And a flowery perfume simmered through the air.

Dinner in twenty, fortune in envelopes, and family forever.
Wuhan summer. American winter. Lotus flowers bloomed and withered.
On the 15th day, dream lanterns soared into the sky and fell wherever.
New Year's Eve dredges bittersweet memories from the Yang Zhe river.

But I wonder if something beautiful remains.
Stitched into the marigolds Grandma left in fabric.
Written in Grandpa’s cracked pen that bleeds ink inward.
Maybe it floats in the warm colors of our continued celebration.

Happy New Year.

It’s now the year of the dragon.
Mysticism is in the air so
I resurrect through remembrance,
Make magic from memory.