coming home from my morning walk i see my father sprinting at full speed his left hand clutching at the purse
he uses to carry his bible and bus pass

his body leaning forward as if
he is trying to break through a wall mom is few yards behind him
as always

her short legs pumping as fast as they can to keep her from losing contact

they are running to the bus stop on 7th and Main headed to some market
that is having a sale
on scallions or pork butt.

they don’t see me
i don’t call to them

we are immigrants a family in motion
touching the surface of continents

that never belonged to us

but i rarely ride the bus with them anymore

the only time i remember from
the past 20 years
is when i rode the 18 bus to virgil and 3rd to see her doctor about her liver failing.

i held her hand on that ride.


it has been a beautiful summer, an extended stay
in Los Angeles, my home. the familiarity of the streets and the noise and the tastes and the people,
the people, their brown faces and brown skin and the words that come out of their mouths every day harmonizing.

i call LA my home and it's funny how i catch myself saying it as if i'm lying about it because i wasn't born here
and i don't even have an address here for now.

i say home because it feels right.
i say home because i need to.

there are also my parents who are too busy breaking
to be happy that i've been here every day for almost two months.

today i was at their place in Little Tokyo
and as i watched dad asleep on one chair and mom watching pirated korean drama with the sound off on the other chair,

i wondered whether my home is also aging, breaking,
getting sick.

i have prepared my whole life to say goodbye to my parents.
even if i fail at it when the moment comes, i have prepared for it.

but i don't know how to not say home anymore.

i don't know how to watch the sky above Los Angeles that isn't really blue

die and disappear.