I write to you this downpour day in Tokyo,
drinking saké--your daughter who rarely drinks--
listening to water drum-beating the tiled roof

of an ancient house I call home.

Heavy rains and saké dig up buried stones:
memories of that house in Mexico,
my nine-year-old body tense with the tugging
by two clashing parents, families, countries,
the wordstones flying my way when I chose
to return with mamá to the States.

That day we walked away
from each other, that night I closed
my eyes and woke up in
another country.

Now, six thousand miles from
the two countries
that link and divide us,

I toast to the wondrous
and frightening journeys
of our feet and hearts.