U*` bie^?n ro^.ng sao ba(`ng lo`ng me.
Ti`nh bao la vu~ tru. he.p nhie^`u
Bu't mu*.c na`o ta? Ca.n nie^`m ye^u
Con kho^n lo*'n, ro~ lo`ng cu?a me.
--Pha.m Doa~n Hu*'a
That's mommy in 1968. And here's me in 1998. I am eating mama's favorite apple. People says that I have her smiles, her petite untouched body until she was married away. She was once young and beautiful, unwrinkled skin, soft like feathers. Funny and rarely boring, mama's was always at the center, giggling and making others laugh. Yet no one can feel mama's pain or know her struggles of being the oldest female who was obliged to tend her other six siblings after grandpa's death. Filial duty she must followed. I am eating mama's favorite apple... In america, mama is older. I can see through the ripples of mama's tangled forehead. The aches on her tiring body each night. The past memories of war and boat that aren't history. I am eating mama's favorite apple. I may have her grace, people said, but I will never understand why this is mama's favorite apple. Another bite into the apple. --KimThanh, 4/24/00
I wrote this poem on a sunny beautiful day at Mount Holyoke College. It is quite funny where I find the inspiration to write this poem for my mom. While I was waiting for the bus to go to an off campus class, I ate a gala apple, my mom's favorite kind of apple. Out of sudden impulse I was inspired to write this poem while eating the delicious apple.
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