I.
The first time you meet your wife’s
parents, they will invite you
to Thanksgiving dinner. High school
sweethearts, fucking in backseats,
sneaking in through her window. Her
family will be loud and large
like an oven. Uncles, aunts, grandmothers,
grandfathers. The women will be finishing
up in the kitchen. Her father: balding
with a beer belly and a voice
deep enough to mistake
for kindness. He will ask, What do you want
with your life? You’ll say, I’m going
into computer science or engineering. Good
boy, he’ll respond, pat you on the back.
There will be a painting hanging
above the dining room table
of Jesus. No, a cheap print. An uncle: It’s those
damn immigrants, I swear. An aunt:
John, let’s not. They will look at you.
The light from the chandelier will be yellow.
II.
Your son will not be very bright, but it’s all good.
When you visit Korea, your cousins will
tell him he has good genes, say,
He’s half-Korean after all.
We Koreans are the most
hardworking, so meticulous, even
the damned Japanese couldn’t beat
that out of us. Your wife
will smile, nod, whisper in your ear, begging
you to translate. You will rub her back,
nothing more. When your son races
through water after school, makes
team captain, you will tell him how
he is a winner, oh how strong, and how brave.
You and him will, together, give up on math.
Late in the night, after he falls
asleep, your wife will moan
your name, as she did in the car
all those years ago—but not
the one your grandmother can recognize
or pronounce. You will never quite make her finish.
III.
As is typical, you will die
before your wife. Simple statistics.
By then, your son will marry a good American
woman. He will have a job that requires
decent intelligence. Nothing too
demanding. Children, also. He’ll host
Thanksgiving dinners. His wife will prepare
the turkey. Your funeral will be held in a church
not too grand, not too small. The pastor will know you
well enough to recognize your name, how he hadn’t used it
the past few Sundays. Your cousins
will fly out from Korea, make a trip out of it.
Your son will give a speech and vow to live
with as much kindness as you did, although
of course that’s an impossible task.
Your cousins will smile and weep politely.
From the pews, your wife will whisper
your name. She will mistake your name
for you. On the stone tiles, the exotic
light of stained glass. It will do
what it always does: seduce fools.