I have a clock in my room that has a broken hour hand stuck at 6 o’clock, the minute and second hands still move. Instead of a circular clock, the shape is square with a stained wooden frame. It used to be a simple picture frame of Native American artwork that my mom turned into a clock, glued on gold numbers, and blue turquoise stones. When she left the reservation in New Mexico, she was probably homesick and needed a reminder of home. Now after all these years it only has 5 blue stones surviving, collecting dust in our spare office. I put up the clock to remind me what's waiting for me on the reservation. My family, my grandfather's house where he gently passed away in his sleep, and the green 97’ Chevy Impala he has in the backyard that he called the “Green Dragon”. It's comforting in a way because I don't remember the reservation that I visited when I was a toddler, I can only hear stories about it from my mother who can’t remember all the details but tries her best. One of my favorite stories is the time I was stealing grapes from the glass bowl on my grandfather's old table next to him while he slept in his chair. She even told me, “My dad was actually pretending to sleep while you tried to quietly sneak more grapes. You stared back at him with wide eyes. When I asked why he didn't, he answered with only peeking one eye open, shrugged, smiled, said “It’s fine”, and went back to his nap; he always treated you with a warm kindness only a grandpa could give”.

– KW

Relationship:  Child of im/migrant Child of im/migrant