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Before sending money, my parents had wanted

evidence that she was alive. What cost to find

and hire a cameraman, and what delay

until her picture reached us, and the money

reached her. It is my American karma,

I am beholden: Constantly send money,

the least we can do. A sweetness would pop

into my mouth; Ah Po was sending candy.

All my brothers and sisters felt it, all

at the same moment. “I cared for Ah Po,

and I cared for Chuck’s first wife.

I gave care to 4 people.” Chuck is

Elder Brother’s elder brother, who left

for America, and married a Chinese American.

Chuck’s the one, all his children married

white demons. First Wife requested,

Send me one of the sons; you have so many.

A son did write letters to her, in English

to be translated, addressing her as Dear Mother. But

she went mad from loneliness, and had to be taken

care of. He didn’t say who the other 2

were he was caregiver to. Maybe Ah Goong, who

went to fight the Japanese, and came back

not right in the mind. All Grandfather’s

generation, and Father’s generation,

and the brothers of his own generation left

for the Gold Mountain, and put the old parents

and old wives into this farmer’s

keeping hands. Elder Brother’s name is:

Benefit the Nation, like the motto that Yue Fei’s

mother tattooed on his back. Be

constant sending money, the least we can do.

Letting go of the buffalo, Elder Brother said,

“Lai, la. Lai, la. Come,

come see the new temple.” We hurried

back through the village. The temple, holding

the east side of the plaza, looked as I’d seen

it 23 years ago. Up high,

on the tympanum:

one big word, Hong. Soup.

It looks important, and it looks funny.

The first king of the first dynasty was named Soup.

So the oracle bones say. In famine,

in illness, slow-boil in water: leaves and bark

and grasses, scraps, whatever everybody has.

(Never the seeds for planting.) Drink soup,

be well. The water for making life-saving

soup came from this well

beside me, this well centered in the village

square, this well in front of the temple.

My aunt killed herself, and she killed the baby,

in this well. I looked down into it,

but did not see a very deep hole,

did not see the eye that reflects stars.

The water came to the top of the well; it seemed

to be drawn up through porous stone but

inches away, ankle-deep. My aunt

with the baby couldn’t possibly have jumped into

a well this shallow, and drowned. A crone,

wee, shriveled to my size, gripped

my hand tight in her hand, which was cold

and clammy. She said, “You and I

are very related.” We are ho chun.

I thought, Don’t touch me; I don’t want

to catch your disease. I felt her hard bones

around my wrist, my arm. In her other

hand was a bowl of water. She let go of me,

and with both hands offered me water.

Water from the well. Her hand was cold

and wet because of clear, clean well

water. I touched the water, as cold as

though iced. I touched it with both hands, put

both hands into the water, then

touched my forehead, touched my eyes,

and held my palms against my cheeks, held

my face in my hands. I am blessing myself,

and my aunt, and all that happened.

Earll did as I did, the crone standing before him,

proffering the bowl of water. On this hot

day, we did not drink; the water

was not meant for us to drink. The crowd

was not looking at us, when a Chinese crowd

will gather and look at anything, watch who

wins the haggling, watch the street barber

cut hair, watch anybody write anything.

The villagers were looking away, knowing, we

had shame, we had curse. They gave us privacy.

Gave us face. Are they wondering whether I

am wondering, Do they know? Do they know

that I know? The crone woman—now

where is she?—is she old enough

to’ve witnessed the raid on our house? The people

at the old folks’ club, had they taken part?

Killing the animals, hounding my aunt. The men.

One of those men her rapist, her lover?

She gave birth in the pig sty. She drowned,

and the baby drowned in this very well.

Are these things