Coffeeshop Writer's Group - Allan, we missed ye! - Photo of Bruce's Parents - Poem: Yuan Li, my Chinese exchange student

Carly, where art thou?

Ah, there she is, thanks to Martha's iPad. Linda and Beatriz contacted us via email to say they weren't coming.

Carlana wrote an intriguing piece about not sleeping well. I told her I was up until 4 am working on my latest short story, A Thief Comes Calling.

Donna Krause wrote a clever prose piece from the point of view of the New Year's Eve Ball in Times Square, keeping us in suspense until we learned who was speaking.

Justice Sotomayor will press the button for the Ball Drop this Tuesday nite.

The idea for the Ball Drop was that of Adolph Ochs, then owner of the NY Times, in 1907.

My goodness, how much we've learned in the span of two minutes.

"Banned from the Kitchen" was Martha's piece. Her granddaughter Brianna and her friend were making Christmas goodies in the kitchen and wanted no help or guidance from Grammy.



I showed Bruce an Internet photo of a cheese mushroom omelette and asked if he'd like me to make it for him.

At first I started sauteeing the mushrooms in a new Teflon-like pan I bought at the Giant yesterday.

"Terrible smell," said Bruce.

"A burning smell," I told him, and looked on the bottom of the pan.

I'd forgotten to remove the paper.

We enjoyed the 6-egg omelette and he asked if he could make it himself one morning.

Sure, I said.

He won't be here much longer. I think Monday is his last day. 

Who are these Chinese people?

They are Yuan's parents. I spoke to them last nite, Sunday nite. They invited me to China. Who knows?

TO YUAN “BRUCE” LI
December 27, 2013

The stork delivered you
in a VW Jetta
o Chinese son
mine for
nine holy days
at Christmas time.

I loved your face
and tall slender body
a bamboo
swaying with the wind

We teach each other
Boy and mom
Together we watch
Tank Man at
Tienamen Square
you love his bravery
as we watch his last stand
before he is marched away
and vanishes forever
like last night’s dream

The sound of your laughter
that of a confident
seventeen-year-old
spills from your bedroom
into this empty house
Christmas lights in
the front windows
cheer me from
the departure of
Sarah and Dan

How brave thou art!
Kissing mother and
father goodbye
in Anhui province
by the wide Yangtze River
then flying in three
silver airplanes
across the rippling Pacific
where unseen fishermen
pull in their catch
then across the Midwest
where Asians are
exotic
bound up in stereotypes
then on to Philadelphia
to study at a renowned
Catholic prep school

Religion is not for my boy.
“Science is my god,” you proclaim
sure of yourself
as the morning sun

On wintry mornings
with white clouds
scurrying by
you do your tai chi in
the backyard
the sparrows pause
in flight
the woodpeckers
stop their hammering
charmed by your
Baryshnikov ballet steps
and rhythmic breathing

And proud mother
that I am
watch you from the
kitchen window
underneath the barren maple
and will continue to see you
my Chinese son
Yuan Li
long after you have gone.