More to a Gleam than Meets the Eye
The Lakers are primed. The stage is set. The drama will unfold for the nation to see. But we have our own gleaming in the works. Cici has made the terrazzo tile floors in our home shine, on her own initiative. If she knew I was saying this, she would blush. Don't talk about me, Papa, she would say. But she knows that I only speak with pride. She is cleaning our home; her home.
Ping and I had a long conversation between one thirty and two thirty this morning Houston time. One of the things I told her is how proud I am of our daughter. Ping was on her way to order the "machines" for our new home in Guangzhou. Translated, this means our air conditioners and heaters, our refrigerator, our stove, and our clothes washer. No clothes dryers. We have the sunshine and two patios, so we will do it the Chinese way.
Back in Houston, as I read books like "Snow Falling in Spring," written by a Chinese woman who lived through the cultural revolution in China as a child, I talk with Cici about them. I know that she knows nothing about what happened during this time in China, so I break it to her gently, non-judgmentally. This book was written by a Chinese woman who was there when it happened, I told her. This is not a Western view of China, I say. I show her the pictures in the book, and she is very interested.
Thank you Cici, I say as she walks past me, my feet and legs on the ottoman and the laptop on my lap. She turns, surprised that I would thank her. She is such a good daughter. Tomorrow she will be able to sleep later because I have an early hearing at an immigration office far north of where we live. I will leave our home around 6:00 a.m. to meet the clients and attend the hearing. You sleep, and I will come back to get you when I am finished with the hearing, I tell her.
Thank you, Papa, she says. The gleam, you see, is in my eyes. I know how lucky I am to have her as my daughter. One day she will read these words. One day she may show them to her children. This was my Papa, I can hear her telling them. This was your grandpa, who brought me to America, and he loved me very much.
Thank you Cici.
Ping and I had a long conversation between one thirty and two thirty this morning Houston time. One of the things I told her is how proud I am of our daughter. Ping was on her way to order the "machines" for our new home in Guangzhou. Translated, this means our air conditioners and heaters, our refrigerator, our stove, and our clothes washer. No clothes dryers. We have the sunshine and two patios, so we will do it the Chinese way.
Back in Houston, as I read books like "Snow Falling in Spring," written by a Chinese woman who lived through the cultural revolution in China as a child, I talk with Cici about them. I know that she knows nothing about what happened during this time in China, so I break it to her gently, non-judgmentally. This book was written by a Chinese woman who was there when it happened, I told her. This is not a Western view of China, I say. I show her the pictures in the book, and she is very interested.
Thank you Cici, I say as she walks past me, my feet and legs on the ottoman and the laptop on my lap. She turns, surprised that I would thank her. She is such a good daughter. Tomorrow she will be able to sleep later because I have an early hearing at an immigration office far north of where we live. I will leave our home around 6:00 a.m. to meet the clients and attend the hearing. You sleep, and I will come back to get you when I am finished with the hearing, I tell her.
Thank you, Papa, she says. The gleam, you see, is in my eyes. I know how lucky I am to have her as my daughter. One day she will read these words. One day she may show them to her children. This was my Papa, I can hear her telling them. This was your grandpa, who brought me to America, and he loved me very much.
Thank you Cici.
And we are the goofballs that follow the story with love, and envy!
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