From Noise from the Laundry, published by Talonbooks in 2008.

Uncle Dong Fei is 104, fragile in winter. He has itstanding still, those shakes in hisbleached red-gnarled, soaked-to-the-bone son of alaundryman’s hands—a committed Christian whose YMCA-sponsored wifeback in 1920 was the talk of Chinatown—and I ask him how old he is, really,and he just laughs, waters the African violetsin his room and lets me feed him congee withoong-goo and mook-ngee.My father brings hima plastic cream cheese container, full of tofu jello,home-made au-foo fa. “Mm heck-uk, can’t eat so much,”Uncle Dong Fei protests,waving those thickened calluses and bleached nails.He still starches his own collars, irons and presseshis 6 shirts and 4 pants on visiting dayswhen we can watch him. His eyes brightenwhen the nurse brings in the iron and ironing board.Look, listen, and learn, my father seems to indicate, bythe way he leans forward. Uncle Dong Feitakes a giant gulp of peppermint waterand spews the finest mist cloud from his lips.A rainbow leaps up and leaves its arc.He begins ironing as the dropletsfall on his sleeve, his chest pockets,the detailaround each cuff button. His early shakes arestilled and purposeful, the hot iron’s prow glides over a white sea,looking for refuge, unwrinkling vastnessas it goes along,and his ship never stops curving in spite of itself,and I think of rescue within rescuebecause there must be a point to this, andUncle Dong Fei,Uncle Dong Fei who just keeps going.