Witnesses

Five alarms set twenty minutes apart –

each one dismissed.

The creaks of the old, stained mattress before and after each alarm.

The inevitable snoring I’m still in denial about.

The walls of my home are a pale yellow plaster,

maybe cream, or beige …

probably not cream, now that I think about it,

but definitely not white.

My father telling me to wake up,

in that broken English he worked so hard for but never improved.

My father telling me to open the blinds in my grandmother’s makeshift bedroom.

My father telling me to put her shoes on for her.

The walls of my home have two holes

the size of tennis balls, the size of elbows.

One hides behind a picture frame in the foyer.

The other sits in plain sight, in my brother’s room upstairs.

My grandfather cooking for his wife.

My grandfather yelling at her for not getting out of bed.

My grandfather dropping dishes.

My grandfather exclaiming as he discovers the dishes someone dropped.

The walls of my home have scuff marks

from careless kids,

from my half-blind grandmother’s walker,

from twenty-four years of life.

Chinese soap operas.

Piano music.

The tired arguments or a three-generational household:

two generations of Taiwanese immigrants and one of spoiled American children.

The walls of my home have never been cleaned.

They’ve witnessed EMTs carrying my grandmother after she collapsed.

They’ve witnessed my grandmother coming home from rehab, and never getting better.

They’ve witnessed it all, and their ears ring with the echoes of our mistakes.