My mother is not in Hong Kong.
Except in the stoic faces out by the millions daily in the streets.
In the floating piano notes nightly tipping out windows, slowed and stretched on humid air. The sad oboe next door. The boy trumpeter playing his Star Wars. In the scales up and the scales down, because practice makes perfect.
In knowing that silence can be strength. In the lack of complaint.
There, for certain, in the Bollywood dancers at the gym. Trying, trying, trying to stay thin.
And the texters on the train.
(She would have been a texter.)
“Mom, how r u?”
“Gone. Not in Hong Kong.”
What can I say?
She was practical too.
A little bit wry.