Made white rice in a pot
On the Stove
Measured water with finger
The way Koon Yai taught me
Pointing to the clock, counting out fifteen minutes
Without words
We had no words
She had greasy stringy hair of black and white
Paper thin skin, pulled up and stayed up
Obedient to her as I could never be
I washed the pot the next day, discarding unfinished rice
Crunchy on top with a bottom of mush
Searing pain through my gut with the agony of remembrance
My rice failed her teachings
And I missed her
Missed her hunched shoulders
And the threadbare clothes from Thailand
She had worn for 20 years until it was replaced with a hospital gown
I used to watch her make her gum.
Leaves rolled with paste and coins from trees.
A screwdriver for a pestle
She added tobacco and spit in a cup
Spit of blackish brown frothing disgust
And I miss it
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