She told me many a tale
of China,
of her own mother
a concubine in a big house
rich with the smell of incense and
jasmine tea.
Her tiny feet would tread
Softly upon the earth
wrapped in a myriad of swaddling binds
confining the dreams
the wishes
of a lifetime.
Yet she would smile
gazing upon their tininess
others praising their beauty.

Now she sits in her rocking chair
drinking Lipton orange pekoe
lips parched and silent.
I approach and ask
“Can I do anything for you, Grandma?”
She does not answer
then I see
the Miracle Ear lying on the dresser.
I tap her shoulder
whisper question in deaf ear,
she looks up at me
stroking my face with those thin hands
blue veins encased in thin layer of flesh
yellow as parchment,
old as the years passed away.
Smiling she answers,
“You be good girl.”

I take her hands in mine:
Grandma, I want to see you fly
and be free and laugh high
show fierce sparkle in your eye,
waltz wildly through the night
let nothing pass you by.
What can I do but
walk slowly away
watching her rock
take off tiny slippers
to rub painful feet?