Grandmother

You could have been the empress of China
if they had not had your feet bound
and confined your territory to the kitchen.
You could not read or write or travel to see the world,
Like the mad woman in the attic,
you kept nagging to have your voice heard.
You were the empress of the house
who commanded and fed husband, children, grandchildren
and all the domesticated animals,
through times good and bad.
You seemed to have an answer to every problem,
a remedy for all ailments.

Under a moonlit night you told stories
passed down from generations to generations,
the ancient glories of the Xia Hou family the name of the second emperor. You were married at the age of 11.
Was it your sweet heart who sailed you across the river to your new home? You gave birth to 10 children.
You wailed when your only surviving son died at the prime of his age.
What about your two daughters, my mother and my aunt?
No, a daughter could not carry the family name
or be with you at your death bed.

You lived a life a century long.
In your last days you wanted to go back to your native village
so that you could enter the ancestral hallwhen you died
for fear you would become a wondering ghost
if you did not die at home.
The leaves always returned to their roots.