Thanksgiving

The cops left to file their reports.
We cleaned up what the burglars left.
It was Thanksgiving:

The air was bitter,
There was turkey on the table,
And our family was together.

Normally, comfort was confined
Within white walls, prosperity banners,
Silence, and Clorox.

The computer, video games,
And Chinese dramas
Were our escapes from ourselves. But Mom

Made us fold laundry in the living room
While she mopped the floors.
Even after the wash, her apron smelled
Of soybean oil from the restaurant.

This year it felt enough for us—
Mom’s only day off—
And yet, in the dark of my parents' room,

I witnessed Mom crying into her hands—
The same hands that worked
For twenty-years-worth of savings

And placed them confidently in
Her closet-safe. I
Walked backwards, toward the kitchen into

The hallway, held my breath, so she couldn't
Hear me. And I kept my mouth shut,
So no one heard her.