i dream of my grandmother, living close to me. i dream of a self that forgives me. i dream of my grandfather, putting shumai into my plate. i dream of my grandfather asking me to get something from the kitchen, i can barely reach the top shelf of the fridge. i dream and dream and try to remember how the birds sang on the balcony of my childhood, but all the balconies were different and the birds never the same.

faintly a memory of an inflatable pool comes to me. i am three. we live in my apartment, just my mother and me. i never question where dad is. he is somewhere else. the sun is hot, diffused by grey tarp. none of this would be possible without plastic.