She says, yes—it’s a bit dark
and cold, but you can get used
to anything with time.
I imagine my mother: setting up doilies
on eel cave rocks, polishing
a coral reef. Already, she’s probably
cleaned half the disaster debris
from the ocean floor.
It must be beautiful, I say—what
with all those fish down there.
You have all the unagi-don you could ever
want now, right? I laugh.
My mother gets harder to see.
You must be busy, she says.
I’ll join you soon, I joke.
My mother says nothing.
My mother reaches out to give me
a gift but her hands are empty.
She keeps gesturing toward me,
her translucent hands
like two fish. I ask her what
she is trying to give me.
And then I see it—my two hands
against hers, how full and pink.