My Mother’s Lungs
My Mother’s Lungs—began their
dying sometime in the past. Doctors
talked around tombstones. About the
hedges near the tombstones, the font.
The obituary writer said the obituary is
the moment when someone becomes
history. What if my mother never told
me stories about the war or about her
childhood? Does that mean none of
it happened? No one sits next to my
mother’s small rectangular tombstone,
flush to the earth. The stone is meant
to be read from above. What if I’m in
space and can’t read it? Does that
mean she didn’t die? She died at
7:07 a.m. PST. It is three hours earlier
in Hawaii. Does that mean in Hawaii
she hasn’t died yet? But the plane
ride to Hawaii is five hours long. This
time gap can never be overcome. The
difference is called grieving.
Victoria Chang, “My Mother’s Lungs” from Obit. Copyright © 2020 by Victoria Chang. Used by permission of Copper Canyon Press. See coppercanyonpress.org