Reflections

This bus lulls.

Some people are reading, some are sleeping,

two ladies behind us are talking,

the baby up front chuckles hoarsely,

someone is sipping tomato soup,

and in back, Glen Campbell is singing “Wichita Lineman” on the radio.

All of us who don’t know one another

are riding together on this Trailways bus to Vermont

on the first night of 1969.

It doesn’t feel like oshogatsu, New Year’s Day,

because Mama couldn’t make ozoni and sushi

and black-eyed peas and collard greens,

and we couldn’t sip warm sake from the shallow cups.

Mama says she doesn’t care about those things

because we’re traveling to meet Papa.

But what bothers her

is that no man crossed our threshold this morning

(because we don’t have a threshold today),

and that means we’ll have bad luck all year.

I told her we can find a man to visit our new
house,

but she said, “Too late.”

The lady across the aisle is knitting a scarf.

She has been staring at Mama and me

ever since the sun set.

I want to stick out my tongue at her reflection in our window

just to let her know

I know,

but that would disgrace Mama

and disappoint Papa.

So, I open the Time magazine

with the three Apollo 8 astronauts on the cover—

the Men of the Year—

that came just before we left,

which Auntie Sachi slipped into my bag at the door,

with a note:

Have a safe journey.