Proverbs
Father sits across from me at the kitchen table,
his chin rests on his round fist,
small, black eyes roam the mahogany surface.
His index finger scribbles invisible ink that I cannot read,
could never read.
He looks up at me with arched eyebrows,
“I have something for you.”
Father brings back a white sheet of paper,
I stare at the black lines, the boxy shapes.
“Han Mun,” he explains,
“Proverbs,” he mutters.
I decipher the jumbled English translations:
The well where the taste of water is good dries first.
Sweet swallows. Bitter spits out.
Perhaps I am too ignorant to understand,
or perhaps these words are too foreign to my American ears.
I scratch at the white paper, frustrated by these
strange characters that tell stories of my entire culture.
But, father, you never taught me to read the strokes of your pen,
how can I learn these ancient sayings?
I sit at the table, tracing the lines, again and again.
“Someday, your children will learn them for you.”
