The Gift

Milpitas, CA 2022This is the second time I dream of you.Inside the milky-colored corner house, you give mea small wooden side table that holds nothing.Whereas, the first time, on the fortieth daywhere your soul ascends into heaven, you satbehind a large, round wooden tablewith homemade chicken adobo, steamingmounds of rice, like the dirt mounds fromwhich this city was born, fried tilapiafrom Ocean Supermarket, all atop brilliantlygreen banana leaves, and sinigang so sourmy lips still pucker, as if to say here, it is here.You ask, both times, “Do you like it?” And I mustfight the urge to fly again. I want to jot this all down,just in case, memory fails me.How whole you were, without a single crackto your skin, full, so full, and vibrant and roundas your voice, eat more, eat,and your hair more pepper than salt, shiny fromthe baby oil. Your secret. I have to tell you, “I love it.”And I do. More than the shadow in my chest. Our Fatherwho art in heaven, the priest said. Thy kingdomcome, Thy will be done. How everyone murmured after himlike a mantra. Every time you ask, “Are you happy?”