The Rice Bowl

Originally published in The Peahce Project.

my mother has a rice bowl 
passed down from her grandparents.
not the typical delicate porcelain bowl, 
hand painted with dainty dragons and flamboyant fairies 
that should only be displayed in a glass case. 
the bowl is just a simple wooden bowl, with cracks at the bottom
where the 9 and 6 in the year 1960 has faded away 
from the sun and rain and hurricanes 
of history. 

the bowl was with my grandfather
when he returned from the North
back to his hometown 200 miles away.
the wood was still fresh, with the musky scent of the ebony
glimmering in the Central sun
and grain patterns curving like waves of the river
across which my grandfather tried to swim twice 
on his way fleeing from the war.
the inside was filled with mushy cassava
along with some adlay grains
of days of stumbling in the jungles
but also with blood and tears of happiness 
from seeing his family again.

the bowl was with my mother
when she moved for college to a city 400 miles away.
the toughness still stands against
the thunderstorms of the South,
yet the jetblack ebony had already faded.
a crack appeared here and there,
not from holding mushy cassava
but steaming ramens and briny tofu overlapping rice
of days cramping in dorms,
but also with sweat and tears of happiness
from seeing new horizons.

now the bowl lies in my hands, 7316 miles away
from my homeland.
the rim is still round like the world I’m bound to.
I wrap it out from the suitcase, realizing,
while the cracks may still be able
to hold spoonfuls of phở, bún bò, or hủ tiếu
and meals from dusk till dawn,
they are far from enough to withstand against 
the power of hope from three generations.