Mom in Brooklyn (I) — Page 23

#01

The Arrivals Gate

Been standing at the arrivals gate for twenty-six minutes.

Flight landed thirty-eight minutes ago. Timed it. Refreshed the airline app eight times before realizing I should stop. The sign in my hand said 妈. Written it in pencil. Gone over it in pen. Hadn't been planning to hold up a sign. Held it at my hip in case it was useful. I was, at the gate, twenty-six minutes of not-knowing-what-to-do-with-my-hands. She came around the corner with the suitcase. Hadn't yet seen me. The thing my body did in that second was a thing I hadn't, in thirty years, asked it to do. The hand with the sign moved up an inch. She saw it.

#02

The First Car Ride

The Uber crossed the bridge.

Mom hadn't, in fifty-eight years, been to New York. The buildings got tall the way Hangzhou got tall the year I came back — a tallness that doesn't announce itself, only as more. Mom looked out the window. Didn't say anything for the eight minutes from the bridge to the apartment. Said, once: 很多人. A lot of people. I said yes. Didn't point at anything. Didn't take a photograph. Let the city be a city she was being driven through. Watched her look. Wanted, my entire adult life, for her to see this. Hadn't understood what for her to see would feel like until the car.

#03

The Apartment, with Mom in It

Mom took her shoes off without being asked.

Set them at the door. Stood and looked. Thirty seconds, without speaking. I'd cleaned for two days. The windowsill had eight pots and Greg. The cat on the chair, having opinions. Mom looked at the windowsill. Looked at the chair. Looked at me. Mom said 干净. Clean. This was, from her, a sentence with weight. The cleaning had been, the entire two days, exactly for this one word. She said it. Put the kettle on. We had, at six-twelve PM, arrived.

The dumpling shop on Manhattan Ave (the canon Pack 04 #04 / SQ 05 #02 shop)

#04

The First Dumplings, in Brooklyn

Been bringing Mom to this dumpling shop in my head for three years.

The dumpling shop didn't know it was on trial. Mom ordered the pork-and-chive. Mom always orders the pork-and-chive. Ate one. Ate a second one. Mom said 皮太厚. The wrapper is too thick. Had, for three years, told myself the wrappers were fine. The wrappers were, in fact, a little thick. Mom finished the plate. Finished my plate too—don't waste. On the way out Mom said, more softly: good enough. This, from her, is praise that had to walk three flights to reach me. Held the door. Walked the four blocks home in the dark. Mom said the air was cleaner than Hangzhou. I said yes. Didn't talk again until the lobby.

#05

The Chipped Cup

Mom found the chipped cup at 8:14 AM.

Didn't, immediately, say anything about it. Turned the cup. Looked at the chip. Held it up for thirty seconds. Mom said 你做的? You made this? I said yes. Mom said, in the small careful voice she uses for the important small things: 很好. Very good. Set the cup down beside the teapot. Didn't, for the rest of the morning, say anything else about it. Mom doesn't, generally, say good things twice. Drank tea from a different cup that morning. The chipped cup was, that day, hers. Didn't, when she set it down, even know what she had done. She'd said 很好 about a thing my own hands made. I will, for the rest of my life, hear it.

Mom at the windowsill in mid-morning, examining Greg with the focused practical attention she gives all living things

#06

Greg and Mom

Mom inspected Greg.

Touched a leaf. Mom said 她需要更多水. She needs more water. I said I water her on Wednesdays. Mom said Wednesday is not enough in this apartment. The apartment in question being, Mom's argument went, drier than I'd been assuming, owing to the radiator under the windowsill she identified at 8:16 AM. Mom moved Greg six inches to the left, slightly less directly above the radiator. Mom said now Wednesday is enough. Had Greg for four years. Hadn't, in four years, considered the radiator. Mom was here for ninety-six hours total. Had, in ten minutes, given my plant a better life. The plant said nothing. Accepted the move the way Greg accepts everything—by growing.

The canon bench at McGolrick Park, a Saturday morning

#07

The Bench at McGolrick

Mom at the bench.

She brought the quilted jacket. The park was small and treelined, the kind where I could hear the playground without being near it. Sat for a long time without saying anything. Mom drank the coffee. Ate the plain bagel with butter — she doesn't do scallion cream cheese, by genetic inheritance. The pigeons did the pigeon thing. Mom said, eventually: 你常常来这里? You come here often? I said every Saturday. Mom said good. That was the entire conversation. Sat for another twenty minutes. The bench held both of us.

#08

The Couch, the First Evening

Mom brought yarn.

Hadn't known Mom still knit. Thought it stopped in 2014, when her shoulder had been the shoulder. She'd started again two winters ago. Brought the small ball in case there was time. On day three, after dinner — Mom on the couch knitting, and Mim got on her lap. Mim. The cat who had, in three years, accepted exactly four humans. Mim decided on Mom in seventy-eight hours. Mom didn't react. Continued knitting. Said, eventually, without looking up: 她很乖. She is well-behaved. Didn't correct her. Closed the notebook. Watched them both. Hadn't, in any season of my life, expected to watch the cat sit on my mother.

#09

Day Four, Late

Day four ended at eleven.

Mom fell asleep on the couch during the movie at nine-thirty. Didn't wake her. Pulled the cream cardigan up to her shoulders. Washed the chipped cup. Stood at the counter with a mug of tea. Wanted this — to have my mother in the apartment I made — for years before I would have admitted wanting it. Told myself, until last spring, she'd never come. The cup dried. The lamp was on. The cat on the chair. My mother asleep on my couch. We had five more days. Five days is more days than I've had her, in one place, since I was eight.