“Stateside” chocolates shipped in balikbayan boxes
from my Lola in New York was the currency
I traded in childhood—the economics of love
in a diasporic family. Once, she sent me a birthday card
stuffed with leaves fallen from the sugar maples
behind her cottage on Lake Road.
Leaves the size and shape of my hand, which turned to rust
in the long, cold nights that followed the harvest moon.
A fairytale, back when I only knew of
Benguet pines, evergreen in wet and dry seasons.
It’s been three decades since I crossed the ocean,
like Lola before me. Supplicant at the feet of
trees raining down copper and gold. I still light
a candle and leave out bowls of water and rice on
All Soul’s Day, hoping Lola will grant me a prophecy.
But in this yellow afternoon light, the only ghosts
I come across are kids costumed in white sheets.
Occupants of gated townhomes bearing alms—
Reese’s peanut butter cups, M&M’s, Milky Way bars
Status symbols, considering a 3-pound bag now costs $30.
What would Lola make of this 82-degree Halloween—
so far, the warmest day of the driest month in New York City?
Of the storms and typhoons battering the Philippines simultaneously?
Of the heavy rains blighting crops in West Africa,
where 60% of the global cacao supply comes from?
I want her to tell me how to read the leaves—
Destruction and death aren’t endings but beginnings
Memory is how we live for our ancestors
But memory is as fleeting as the turning of leaves.
Soon, we may even forget to wake in springtime.
—
Vina Orden is a writer based in Lenapehoking/New York City whose work has appeared in Asian Journal, CUNY Forum, The FilAm, The Halo-Halo Review, hella pinay, Hyperallergic, and The Margins. As senior poetry editor at Slant’d magazine, Vina supports and amplifies other emerging Asian American writers. She also is working on her first novel for young adults and has received fellowships from the Asian American Writers’ Workshop, Kweli, Roots. Wounds. Words., and Tin House.
