That Friday afternoon,
we played tiao pi jin together
before we waved goodbye,
wished each other a happy weekend.
On Monday morning,
our teacher, with red
and swollen eyes, said
Yilin and her parents
passed away
on Saturday
due to gas poisoning.
Later I heard
her dad died in bathtub,
her mom in bed.
Yilin crawled to the door,
but lost the strength
to open it.
Thirty years later,
just last night, Yilin came
to my dream.
She’s grown up. Her face
beautiful and clean. Not like
mine, full of moles.
She’s also a mom now.
When I’m nursing my little
girl at 2 am, she’s nursing hers.
We didn’t say a single word.
Only the babies’ sucking,
and the second hand
of the old clock
is heard.
