I am from red envelopes, 

From passionfruit bubble tea and Yamaha half guitars. 

I am from my father’s favorite rosewood chairs,

(Earthly, shining, 

I trace the patterns on its arms and they feel endless.)

I am from rustic red tomatoes, 

Growing quietly in a cramped Berkeley garden.

I'm from poker nights and pale skin.

From Ye Ye and Zhou Zhou. 

I'm from contagious laughs 

and a habit to argue. 

from She started it! and Wanna play games now?

I'm from tiny Buddha statues,

and in the hour we sat with eyes closed 

I made up stories.

I'm from Walnut Creek and a Hunan farm. 

Dumplings doused in soy sauce and broccoli pizza

From the bike rides with my father

across hilly trails and 7 Elevens,

and the walk to kindergarten with Lao Lao,

in winter she called my hands a tiny oven.

I keep a cluttered collection of memories we make together,

stored in my head.

After routine inspection and examination

they drip into me, imbued in the choices I make 

and soaked in the places I call home.