Be sure to wear flowers in your hair

I’m a heartless bitch — I tell myself
As I stick my fingers into my chest and
Trace between my ribs to verify. People
Die everyday — but still. So I 
Took a walk around Chinatown 
Humming the tune of an old song about 
San Francisco that my mother would
Put on every time she cleaned. 

How does one so completely graft
Another culture onto the sloped face
Of another city? This is beyond imitation
— it’s the same smell of soil and 
Specific selection of fresh produce 
That reached out to me as a child
As I cling to the rough hands of my grandfather
In wet markets, as though I was a red plastic 
Bag of groceries to bring home. Where
Do they find the same cast of weathered 
Middle-aged women who pick at pink 
Soft meat at the butchers and 
Push jittery trolleys and look at me
Unabashedly judgemental as if they could
Smell the foreign on me. I know that
Myself, thank you very much. 

It has been a lifetime since I last visited 
My hometown. And now it feels like
I’m missing a reason to go back
— we had promised a reunion again,
Extra special given everyone’s dwindling 
Years and ailing health. Now all I see
Are mops of silver hair I think I recognise,
Cut in the same practical way to not get
Entangled in the shrubs and thorns 
Of raising a family, an inherited pragmatism
From women to women in the family. 

I climb the slopes of Chinatown,
Breathing heavily from exertion —
Inhale the scent of childhood,
Exhale the tune of nostalgia —
Thinking about my grandmother,
Searching for her

In the corners of my heart.