Chen Chen
Issue 13 • April 2014
For Lin
As the snow falls, I hear again
my father shoveling our old car
out of the snow, as the snow kept
falling, almost eighteen
years ago. Though I am far
from the year now, the town, I
hear & love—loud—the eager,
young sound of the shovel,
right next to the gray, gray car
coughing awake. & I love my father
his arms & hands, the many small
frenzied sounds of his joints
bending, muscles
lifting. I love my mother,
who had witnessed only TV snow
before this country, climbing
into the car—the brave sound
of her black boots. I love her watching
& hearing my father snap
icicles off the car roof. Her ears
taking in that incredible crunch
& break, forever. I love my mother
yelling at my father to hurry,
love him hurrying (carefully),
love the old car trying its best
to keep us warm, love my mother
her shouting & cursing
& laughing, her two immense lungs
& three languages, as the snow—
ceaselessly. I hear & love again
her whole body beginning to do
what it did once for me.
& little me tagging along,
my sleepy giddiness as I waited
with my father, soon to truly be
our father. & mother, our mother.
I hear & love again
that January night of blizzard
& blessing, all six & a half
beautiful pounds, breathing,
breathing. I hear & love
you, Brother, as the snow falls
& falls, then & now,
in your voice.