Amy Ling If you dig that hole deep enough, you’ll reach China, they used to tell me, a child in a back yard in Pennsylvania.
In Taiwan I first met Grandma.
Before she came to view, I heard
her slippered feet softly measure the tatami floor with even step; the aqua paper-covered door slid open and there I faced my five foot height, sturdy legs and feet, square forehead, high cheeks and wide-set eyes; my image stood before me, acted on by fifty years.
She spoke a tongue I knew no word of,
and I was sad I could not understand, but I could hug her.
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