The time I was answered with a question

When the Sun was slipping down,

my friend whose name means eyes in this language

answered my question with a question.

I typed my trail of thought on this chipped screen, wordy

but not enough to convey what I had in mind; they’re

different when they’re penned or typed,

seem more earnest,

before I hit the send button.

The green onion I put over the glass filled with water two days

ago displayed some short roots, white with hope.

A wide grin spread as I held it in the air showing it to

my dad who was singing into the new karaoke set sister

invested in just earlier that evening.

We wheezed at brother’s almost busted tailpipe throat

attempting several female’s songs.

Given a choice,

I would grow some from stumps of leftover lettuces and carrots,

buried after their roots are strong enough to be repotted.

All made to line up near the windows where

my brother’s wife blended the jujube leaves while

sister ground black pepper with a pestle and mortar, an essential

mix for the bath ritual.

She kept us reminded. Reluctant brother but obeyed

Later that night I sat on the cold floor video recording

the two children, of them painting the small glass

stones. They followed instructions by their aunt whose

hair, still wet, wrapped under the towel.

The desk was too small but we made it work.

Purposely, I sprinkled some drops of watermelon essential oil

on a soiled carpet of my small sunflower car while

sister’s harmonized crooning filled the road.

these are ordinary

but they are colourful

things are beautiful when I love them.