War had robbed me of a lifetime with my mother. In my memory she was frozen at thirty-five years old, her body firm and strong as an ox, her black braid tied with a single navy ribbon. The woman before me was utterly changed. Her gray hair was cropped chin-length and tucked behind her ears. Her ears were longer than I remembered, her skin waxy. But when she touched my cheek, her fingers carried the same warmth I’d known when I was a girl. And her eyes, ever dark and melancholy, were still the most beautiful I had ever seen.
“You’ve gained weight,” Mama said. “You look prosperous.”
I couldn’t speak. All I could do was hold her.
Mama’s gaze slid down to the bracelet she’d given me. It had stretched out over the years, and the little peanut had lost some of its perforated freckles, becoming smooth and satiny.
Will I ever see you again?I had asked what felt a lifetime ago. I’d sent Mama a photo of my family, a corner of which peekedout from her vest pocket. Her clothes were wrinkled from wear, and her shoes, though clean, had holes.
Had she known we’d have to wait a generation before we met again?
“Can you walk?” I mustered, getting up. “The car might be a little far away.”
“I am here already,” said Mama, who was crying too. “I am in no rush.”
I’d forgotten how serene she was.
“Those must be your girls,” she said, looking over my shoulder.
Peony, Marigold, and Rosie were waiting eagerly by the baggage claim carousel. I motioned them over.
Mama grasped Peony’s hands. “You must be Mei Yee. You look so much like your mother.” She gathered in Marigold and Rosie. “And you, Mei Yoong, Mei Mun. So beautiful.”
Rosie took her bag. I clung to Mama’s arm, guiding her through the crowds to the exit.
Philip was at the curb. He’d opened the trunk in expectation of Mama’s luggage, but at the sight of her empty hands, he closed it and introduced himself.
“Fu Keong,” Mama said. Her eyes shone. “I know.”
We got into the car. Mama asked to be in the back away from the fan, so I sat in the front, wedged between Philip and Rosie. Within minutes, it was as though Mama had lived with us for years. Rosie was chattering about a band she loved, Peony was describing her fiancé, even Marigold chimed in with details about her life at college.
For the most part, Mama was quiet. Content to listen, as she always had been. Then, in the middle of our journey, she spoke out, “Why isn’t the radio on? Yut Ying, you don’t need to leave it off on my behalf.”
“Mom doesn’t like the radio on,” said Rosie.
My mother frowned as though Rosie had spoken Russian, not Cantonese. “Your mother doesn’t like the radio on?”
“I had an accident with my ear,” I explained. “Sometimes it hurts when I listen to music.”
“So you didn’t become a singer,” said Mama.
Rosie twisted to face her grandmother. “A singer?”
“What, you didn’t know? Your mother used to fall asleep singing to the radio. What a voice she had. She’d sing to the crows and they’d listen.”
“That was a long time ago,” I mumbled. “I don’t sound the same anymore.”
“I’ve never heard her sing,” said Rosie.
“Neither have I,” Peony said. “Except ‘Happy Birthday.’”
“I’ve heard her,” said Marigold. “She used to sing when I was sick, to help me sleep.”
I was surprised Marigold remembered. I observed her in the rearview mirror. Since starting college, she seemed happier. Closer to her sisters, like they’d been when they were young.
“Will you sing, Mom?” Peony was asking. “Please?”
“Just this once.”
