Page 28

Chris Yan

Memory, Like a Prophecy of Heaven and Earth Memory, like a prophecy of heaven and earth, seals itself up for appointed times. A story grows in northern Manchuria, a hot summer sun rises over a field of spawning dragonflies. In 1989, students are shot in the capital, a throng of thirsty souls weeps outside the Forbidden City, this is the story: My mother and father in New York are granted green cards. And for my passage, a consul in a black suit awaits a bribe in Nebraska—I arrive by plane with candied hawthorne in my pockets and my grandmother’s voice in my ear, she is saying be careful of your knees, you always scrape them. Behind her is my uncle smoking cigarettes, holding a jar of eggs. I run to join the other children taunting alley dogs. And here, where everything is promised in a way I don’t yet understand, my father waits in the airport for a boy who doesn’t recognize him. This is my first lesson, at the age of four, that remembering is equally as important as forgetting in the discipline of love. 19

Connective Tissue 2013 | Volume 6  
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