Red Envelope Morning

Journal

The envelopes were already on the table when I came downstairs.

Father had written my name the old way, in both languages.

We walked Chinatown before the lion dance started.

He named the shops that were gone and the ones that stayed.

He pressed a red envelope into my palm like I was still twelve.

I pressed one back. He pretended to refuse, then didn't.

The lion came close enough to tap his shoulder.

He laughed the way he does when he forgets to be careful.

We ate noodles in the window and watched kids collect candy.

He said, "Long life," and made me finish mine.

At the door he said next year I should come earlier.

I said I would. I meant it.