I think of Parker as "Mr. Huang" because when someone lives next door to you, and then your parents, for the first 40 years of your life it's a hard habit to change.
I remember him doing Tai Chi in the driveway most mornings. I remember him taking slow walks around the neighborhood - walking and thinking, walking and thinking. You would almost see him turning over the words of a poem in his mind as he walked.
I'm not sure how the conversation started but one day when I was 9 or 10 years old we met on the sidewalk in front of my house. He was probably returning from one of his walks, perhaps with a Chinese newspaper tucked under his arm. I asked him about "Chinese writing." He very patiently took a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket and drew a couple of characters explaining what they meant and how they came to be. Being a visual person this form of writing made complete sense to me, really more so than abstract English letters.
This story epitomizes Mr. Huang to me. His patient teaching, of course. But also his openness with me. I never hesitated to ask him a question because he treated everyone with deep respect. Even a 9 year old riding her bike down Day Spring Avenue in Hamden, CT.
The world is a better place for your having lived Mr. Huang.
Peace, Marion B. Visel
After A Heavy Snow
By Parker Po-Fei Huang
A bank of whiteness
Is all I see. Have I
tossed away the world
or the world me? Or
is it just a single
moment that I stand on
a sheer precipice
with clouds passing
through me?
Some mists sweep the
sky. Some stars elicit
serenity. I feel that
I am gathering the
reflections of a flower
in the water and that of
the moon in the mirror—
no scent, no motion,
yet I sense eternity.
I stop breathing lest
I wake myself. From
where, of what world,
have I come here? I
turn my head and see
there are only footprints
that follow me.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
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