Womb

Isabella Pan (9) | STAFF REPORTER

My mother’s flesh and bones held me for eight months,
A little concave of safety and love, 
Of chinese folk songs at night
And Tangshi in the morning. 
There she hugged me, put her hands on her belly
As I kicked and punched and screamed and cried. 
There my grandmother housed my mother, 
And my great grandmother housed my grandmother. 

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Oh, how unwilling I was to come out,
The warmth of her womb was just enough 
To keep me from smelling the sticky rice and freshly cooked congee
My grandmother cooked each day, 
Of seeing the red paper cut outs at my first chinese new year
My grandmother covered the walls with.  
Oh it’s such a shame the beauty I was missing. 

When I first opened my eyes, 
The light was blinding. 
The first words I heard are the ones I’m using right now, 
Unfamiliar sounds.  
Words and letters and not strokes and characters. 
I was held tighter and more lovingly than I was held in the womb, 
If that’s even possible, 
In my mother’s tender arms
As she sang me chinese folk songs and recited Songci by heart;
It was a familiar sound.  
I listened as I did before. 
Only now, 
It’s clear. 

The characters and strokes have stayed with me, 
Guided me throughout the years. 
I have blossomed from many different buds, 
All of different hues and scents, 
Seeds collected from every across the forest. 
But they all blossom from the same stem which grows from the same root;
My womb where I house my symbols and aromas and stories and lyrics, 
My womb which I tend to and remind myself of at dusk and at dawn,
My womb which I preserve and care for with all that I have, 
Like my mother cared for her womb and me.