I find a letter from my mother—

It's written after she comes from a three-
month visit that couldn't be extended, because 
her visa status was not renewed. 

Before her visit even begins, we have to leave town 
because of a hurricane threat; she on the other hand 
is stranded, en route, in Michigan.

When we are finally together, it is September.

It is the first time she's meeting her youngest
granddaughter; at three, she is both a little shy and a little
afraid of her high-pitched voice and dramatic gestures.

On Sundays, we walk to the neighborhood church
where the songs and service include no Tagalog
and the communion wafer isn't a wafer but a half-
inch of unleavened bread.

In the guest room where I've laid a fresh quilt 
and sheets on the futon, she asks for an electric fan
as the leaves outside begin to fall.

We make an early Thanksgiving dinner for her
in October, before she leaves; but the turkey is basted
with a mixture of soy sauce, brown sugar, and vinegar.

The entire letter, where she recounts all of this 
and thanks us all, is written in Ilocano, in a flowy script.

From start to finish, it is the sound of her voice
entirely in that other tongue: formal and beautifully
otherworldly, which of course it is.