光輝歲月

By Kathy Jiang

/ Poetry /      

光輝歲月

after Beyond

The morning Wong Kai Kui died, 

my father read the newspaper,

phoned my mother from the hospital landline,

monsoon season lashing the window outside.

Funerals passed: Wong, then my grandfather.

Time rolled on. Into his newly-wed life,

I tumbled, headfirst, 

small and sturdy red.

He never spoke of his dad.

I didn’t even know his name.

Can the stony sky choose 

to heave 

upon any of us? 

How wet that summer 

must have been,

Dad, singing off-key, 

the rain coming down 

hard on his chest, 

two closed fists for eyes 

held out in front of him.