When my parents invited me and my family to join them on what they claimed would be their last trip home to Thailand, I knew they were telling me more than they said. They were not so much old as sick — and feeling vulnerable to time. Despite the stress of uncertainty and the sadness of imminent loss, that awareness of time, place, and all experiences was a gift. My senses were on high alert, paying attention to taste, sound, smell, and the many voices that I knew not to take for granted.
The last trip home
would travel along
the edge of change.
The change comes,
as it always does:
a slow folding in,
then increasing urgency
as the end draws near.
But before that,
would be the last trip home:
the chance to touch gold,
taste salty water,
feel warm breath
on tea-colored skin,
sing the song of language,
touch the ground
of home again.
Amphibious 