In another history, the Cultural Revolution
does not begin the year after my father’s
birth and the year before my mother’s.
In that other life, my grandfather is not sent
to reeducation because of the Russian
degree he earned before the Sino-Soviet split.
In that other life, my mother’s mother stays,
holding her hand on long bus rides
to their village, where in this life
she abandons her after the divorce.
In this life, my father misses first grade
staying home to haul water and herd
the babies and sheep. But in that other life,
he eats meat and grows taller
than his eventual daughter and sons.
In that other life, it’s not his idea
to leave the country. In that other life,
his parents and brothers all dream
the same dream and immigrate together,
they all live next to each other
and learn to ask for help. But in this life,
my father goes alone the summer
of Tiananmen. He flies out for university
a week before the tanks roll in.
In this life, my mother signs an affidavit
promising to stay a good communist
when she follows him. But in that other life,
they have time for a wedding
and money for long distance calls.
The man and woman from that other life
without the Cultural Revolution
might have a favorite painting or favorite poem
where in this life hangs the memory
of a big-character poster in an empty house.
In that other life, their living room fireplace
holds a family portrait in matching blues,
five happy heads tilted on the painted prop ladder.
In place of the yellow teeth that in this life
my father hides unsmiling, that life’s father
beams a fluorescent grin. In that other life
where I am a good daughter
I am also his dentist. I offer advice
on my mother’s crown and she takes it.
She offers me advice on my marriage
and I take it, just as I took their advice
on my career. I pick her up
after a day filling cavities
and we go to the grocery store
with the best pears and persimmons.
We stroll by a bookstore where a poet
is reading from a collection
she has dedicated to her mother
after years of strained silence,
she explains from the podium
before turning the page.
The dentist catches a glimpse of me,
in this life, still being a difficult daughter,
confessing our family secrets
to a half-empty room.
I glance up from the pages
of an angry poem, and I see
her sit near the back and nod hello
to my mother from this life,
exhausted and relenting.
Does she also write, this other self?
Will she come up and speak to me
after the reading? Or will she
turn away and leave
with my mothers?
