collaborative storytelling that is equal parts critical and creative

After flossing, I light candles

to blow out before bed—

line up 86 candles for your 

86 years. It takes a lifetime 

(and doesn’t help that I’m 

asthmatic), but I like to 

swallow the smoke, soak 

in the promise of a lily

or chrysanthemum pressed
in wax, pretend it’s a birthday 

where we celebrate 87.

In August, you whispered 

I want to die, but I bought 

strawberry cake instead,

wrapped the box with 

red bows, asked you to

make a wish. We both 

coughed from the soot, 

must’ve meant my lungs

spawned from yours, 

sucked on unfiltered

cigarettes like yours,

maybe fell asleep on the

hospital bed, filled with

jellied fluid as yours. 

And as the wheezing 

stopped, I wished for

your wish to come true.

 

For Lao Lao