I was five
When my grandmother took me on a walk
During jacaranda season.
Soft lavender snow drifted across the path,
Like a purple carpet.

We sat under a tree,
Its branches formed a violet shelter,
The musky, honey-like fragrance of the blossoms enveloped
My grandma’s laughter, as I showed her
How to make a kebab of jacarandas on a stick.

Then she patted my head,
But her ebony black eyes serious, tender
Around the edges, when she looked at me.
“Be a good daughter.”

I just nodded, hoping I’d understand
Someday,
When I’m taller.
I went back to add more flowers
On my stick.

Each spring,
The jacarandas return,
I look to them.
My grandma’s words land on my shoulder,
Like the purple petals.

Each Facetime call ends the same way,
Never goodbye,
Just
“Be a good daughter.”

Each year I thought I knew what it meant.
Be obedient, be quiet, be good.

And each year, I swatted it away,
Like an annoying, persistent fly.
Because I thought it meant giving myself up,
Giving my voice up,
To be someone else.

Last spring,
My mum told me she needed surgery.
She asked when we should return to China,
Summer holidays in December,
Or April break.

The April break was warmer and shorter,
I didn’t want to give up summer.
I didn’t want to stay inside,
Watching snowstorms rage outside the window.
When I asked her,
“How long will you take to recover?”
“I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me.” She smiled.
But I saw the dark rings under her eyes,

Her pale skin.
How even the shine in her hair looked dull.

My answer pressed on the tip of my tongue,
But I swallowed it.
“Let’s go back in December. It’s been a long time
Since I built a snowman.” I decided.

But I chose December,
Because I knew she needed time to recover,
Because I knew her health was important,
More important than my summer.

The next morning,
I nearly walked into a spider’s web,
Morning dew hung from her trap,
Like jewels, glistening in the sun.
But that’s when I realised the small, violet bud,
Peeking shyly from under a leaf.

“Be a good daughter.” I hear my grandmother say.
Maybe it’s finally time to understand
That it’s about choosing love,
Even through sacrifice.

Not giving up your voice,
But learning how to use it.
Not giving up who you are,
But learning to consider others.

The jacarandas are blooming again.

Photo from Pexels by Alexander F Ungerer