I.
My aunt’s family in California
called with the news
the day after the funeral.

Sick for six months she’d
left specific instructions
to tell us after the fact.

They’d waste their money,
she told them, to fly down here.
They believed her.

I picture the shock on father’s face
eyes unable to focus
on the surrounding room.

Perhaps it was shaking
perhaps it was the endnote
of a tremor arriving from far away.

They say here on the west coast
we are due for a major quake
in the next half-century.

Buildings will crumble in ash
pavement crack like glass
we could all fall into the sea.

Somewhere, a bell rings
its resonance travels towards us.
We believe it. We do not believe it.


II.

These days I see them I forget.

Chinese school after regular lessons every day
then turns at store counter, weekends longer
or driving eighteen-wheelers full of produce.

Bear claws, when found, would mysteriously appear
wrapped in newspaper, be treasured
and transformed to precious healing soup.

Medicine of tree bark, roots, unnamed animals
tasted bitter as expectations. Or worse, as shame

All of my father’s siblings: as different
from each other as a hand is to an eye
but still, brothers and sisters.

None of their old medicines saved her
and father now has lost another of his pieces
without a chance to grieve
in the style of our generation
with its caskets and processions.

As for old ways, we have no altar
in our house to burn incense for the dead
nowhere to place oranges to provide sustenance
for the long journey to the other side
or to give them sweet earthly remembrance
as they watch us from new hidden places.

As for me, fascinated by mirrors
but frightened of damage
by unforeseen circumstances
(a wall shaking, a crack that forms).

I am of no use or comfort
this would-be poet son
who has taken so few opportunities
to ask: Father
tell me about the old days.