Recently my cousin Robert Yen shared a moving poem he wrote long ago about the Van Nuys ranch.
"I came upon this poem in my old files. It’s one I wrote 30 years ago based on stories my mom told me about her growing up with your dad at the ranch. You’ll recognize that it actually combines her stories with some of my memories of the ranch house which didn’t exist during their childhood, e.g., the moss by the front door, the steps and the door mat on the side of the house. (Remember that closet next to the door where Ah Gung kept his hats?)"
THE RANCH
- for my mother and uncle
With a walnut branch
we coax a black horse to the fence.
Together, we climb on its wide back
and watch the sun fall
beyond the far eucalyptus.
The slivers of beef
and asparagus from father's fields
are on the stove, and as we make our way home
we leave low-hanging motes of dust
then climb three steps
and pause before entering, to rattle
our shoes on the steel mat beside the door.
The table is set in grey.
We set ourselves in the black chairs
and cool our throats with milk
from a silver pitcher.
*
At night the house is silent
except for father
coughing into a bag in the kitchen.
Outside,
we pinch the light from stars
and watch the moon rise in the east
out of Asia.
From the door of a packing shed
Mexican songs and lantern light scatter
across the glimmering fields.
Later,
I step through the cold and tender moss
by our front door.
There,
a good woman-our grandmother-
draws me near and whispers good night
before I climb on the moon's yellow light
into feather comforters where I cry
and try to remember
the face of our mother.
