It was always the same
deep fried chicken thighs.
Grandpa’s recipe of careless,
delicious calories
that have now run its course.

I remember the savoury meat,
and Grandpa’s ambitions.
Though not so much for him,
as they were for me:

About Hainan.
Him telling me that it’s home,
and me assuring him that I feel the same.

Him reminding me that work
is its necessary reward.
And how could I doubt?
As he reminisced his toil.

He told me that love
has greater faith in reason
than passion.
Then, I remember the buttered bread
he always prepared for Grandma at breakfast,
and nodded in agreement.

It was always the same.
I would glance at the clock,
counting minutes,
clearing plates.
Counting down to a time when,
like now,
my youth in his care,
an eternal debt
becomes a memory.