A SHORT LETTER TO MOTHER by Chen Yupeng
A SHORT LETTER TO MOTHER
by Chen Yupeng
I seldom write to you, lest
my scribblings will cause you
sorrows, lest you compare my scraggly handwritings
to my scraggly existence. It’s now winter, no snow
shows up in Beijing yet, but there are occasional
sandstorms, even more plentiful are people
going through smog in mouth masks. And I belong to
the other group, staying in, books and music
are my fortress. It’s not a big space here,
but enough to live, enough to facilitate
eating, toiletry, daydreaming, and sleep.
After living here for a long time, it’s inevitable
that I get tired of the northern cuisine, and begin to miss
the fish, shrimp, vegetables, shellfish, and rice
that you cooked with your callused hands.
But, rest assured, Mom, I am still not a finicky eater,
and often with a good appetite. What’s less reliable
is a good night’s sleep, as I always dream of
what I imagine during the day. My dreams are
always a little sadder than those of others, and occasionally
I wake up sobbing, then standing by the window
to watch the moon with arms down, until the moon
rises higher and sees me by the window
with leaden arms. This is the quietest moment
of my day, and it always reminds me of
the years when we relied on each other,
when at the end the day's work, you took me
through the city at night. I was little then, and curious
about the moon, but you answered my question
with a voice, tired and croaky, saying “the moon will
lead us home. ”
After leaving you, Mom, I loved many
strangers, but no one spoke to me
with words like yours. Mom, my messy life
is getting more and more confusing, and only now I understand:
the brightest and clearest part of my memories
has always been with you.
About the poet:
Chen Yupeng, born in April 1996, is a postgraduate of the 2018 intake majoring in Dramatic, Film and Television Literary Creation at National Defence University (formerly the PLA Academy of Art). He is the winner of the 9th Guanghua Poetry Award of Fudan University.