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Before the pork buns steamed in the pot,
moisture in their white folds, before
the dried tofu was trimmed into thin strips,
my father raked long grain rice out of the mesh bag,
stirred it on the stove to get the texture right.
He filled a bowl with porridge, sprinkled dried pork shreds
and salted peanuts into a heap on top. Each morning
my father told me to bring the bowl upstairs.
My grandmother listened for my feet grazing
the carpet. She reclined on her bed
with the blue hydrangea pattern I wanted.
I handed her the tray, glanced at the expanding
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