The essence of childhood is bottled up here.
Cemented in the surrounding city blocks,
Flowing through the flower patterns on the rugs,
It agents the wind chimes to whisper when I walk through my grandma’s garden,
And it pollutes the fragrance of Chinese pastries
That ever entice me to open the pink box.
They say the pastry shop is going out of business
But I’m not sure I’m ready to give that up.
The essence of culture is bottled up here
It plays hide and seek with your subconscious,
And its undertones reverberate through the elderly bickering.
It can be felt encrypted in the Chinese tribune in my grandfather’s hands
And it schemes with the all seeing chandelier above the dinner table,
That has witnessed the highs and lows.
They may call it traditional
But perpetual seems more fitting.