I can never understand the silence between me and home,
for years home is but a phone number, cold, digitalized,
even the ringtone sounds peculiar and full of a sad reminiscence
of a place where parents learnt to dismiss the thoughts
of unfilial sons and daughters.
But the phone rings today , twice, intransigently.
For it’s mid-autumn festival, the reunion day,
the same day five thousand years ago
the goddess fled her home and lived permanently
on the moon – and I’m here in Shanghai, the distance is equally scary.
But the silence comes anyway through the phone right after the tentative
voice of a father and cuts short the conversation.
I hold the phone, trying to find some words, words that can fill
the vacant place I left behind, only coming up with “I’m good “
He understands it, and holds his breath for awhile, and asks about
the tea he sent me days ago,
“It’s good for your body , you overwork too much“
“don’t worry, it’s good “ I’m picturing my father bending over
the phone while my mother pressing close to him.
I should have said more, I know all the tender words from books
but the unsaid speak loud now through the silence on the phone.
“good, then I’m hanging up, happy festival” he hesitates,
I almost feel his breath, like the moonlight cascading upon my face.
The goddess’ been always looking for her home since then,
as I do every moment; but now, home is on the phone
reaching out to me with a few words and the silence in between.