彦霖 (Yàn Lín) – Hazel Tan

In penmanship class, at four,
I was taught to write my Chinese name,
two characters in themselves, multiple strokes,
foretelling who I was going to be.

My teacher’s fair hand, cool and
smooth as satin, enveloped my small
pudgy hand. My hand, limp, yielded
itself supple to hers, and I saw our hands

dancing on the square spaces of blue-grid paper.
The strokes we made with lead,
the silhouette of a dancer, twirling on
the stone tiles of a courtyard.

We made different strokes, painting
the first character, yàn:
a counterpart of yán, for colour.
First, we drew a small droplet,

which nestled itself against the
horizon of the sky, making ripples on the
sea of white and faint blue lines.
Then, two larger, downward

strokes sketched a bird
with wings, while
five finishing strokes to the left
gave it feathers. Later,

I watched, fascinated, as the same
dancer shifted itself to the next grid on paper,
dancing on a different stage.
Our hands now,

painting the other character:
lín, strokes that fleshed out
(the smell of)
rain upon two trees.

At twenty-one now, I found
out why the yàn was without colour.
It was a swallow begging for release,
its flight to be graced by the golden sun,

and the rain in lín was not,
but tears of gratitude; the two trees,
two crucifixions1, one each for
my Saviour and I.