Notes on an Incident: Percussions
i.
We sit around my mother’s table in her sleeping room at her monastery in Yucca Valley. Her hospital bed on the other side of the white folding screen, a blue and green watering can painted by one of her caregivers hanging on the edge. Uncle is about to tell another story. Uncle is not technically my uncle, but Burmese people often call anyone older an uncle or an auntie out of respect. He was a doctor and knew my parents in medical school at the University of Rangoon in Burma.
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A memory of my mom frantically trying to make biryani and other dishes for them as they drink whisky. My younger sister and I frying battered squash in hot oil in the kitchen.
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Auntie to the left of me, mom in her saffron robe askew, a Buddhist nun from Vietnam to my right, and her son who had just brought over boxes of glass noodles, packages of tofu, Bok choy, and pink guava offered as a donation.
Uncle begins his story about the time he was hit by a train in Central Los Angeles and how my mother had saved his life. He was driving down the road and became distracted by a tennis game to the left. When he turned his head forward, he saw a flashing red light warning of an oncoming train, but the wooden gate wasn’t working. He knew he had two choices: jump out of the car or try to gun it and miss the train. Uncle slammed on the accelerator and hit the train full force. His body flew from the split-open roof and was sucked towards the velocity of the train’s wheels and then shot out as the train began to brake.
Uncle pauses, takes a sip of water. and continues his story. He then stood up and slowly started to walk back towards his car, so far away, he could feel his bones cracking throughout his body with each step. A man offered to take him to the nearest hospital, which happened to be Martin Luther King, Jr. Hospital in Compton. Your mummy taught anesthesiology to the residents there. He looks toward mom, she nods silently. When he finally was on a hospital bed, he waited and waited. Please call my old friend who works here, she knows me, he says to the nurse. Mom nods again, one eye slowly rolling upward, thin hands slightly shaking as she lifts the mug of ginger tea to her mouth. Your mummy saved my life by finding me a doctor right away, right away, he repeats.
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The next morning her caregiver shares with me that mom loves cute cat videos. I am stunned. But not the funny ones, she adds. I scroll through the feed showing her kittens pouncing onto generic laps, cats dressed as cowboys and so on.
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One afternoon my husband T and I walk the short stretch of Pioneertown checking out a handful of hipster galleries next to bars with old-timey western facades. I buy a rose quartz polished into a heart and the artist drops it into a little satin bag. When we return to the monastery, I place the heart in the palm of her hand. She seems to admire it, perhaps she likes it, but I’ll never know. A quick sliver of pain through my heart. My throat feels dry, and I leave her side to go to the kitchen for water.
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The Joshua trees and low-lying hills beyond. The sky, unclear and gray. Jackrabbits and a family of quail scurry by.
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Our 92-year-old mother, a Theravadan Bhikkhuni ordained in Sri Lanka, flicks bits of rice off her orange fleece vest. I tell her that a power outage is expected that night. I check the portable oxygen tank and recall how loud the generator was the last time I visited. A vicious storm, two rattlesnakes coiled tightly near the circuit box.
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My younger sister and I are at her bedside, covered in dark red blankets, a round pillow under her legs. She touches her mouth with her right hand and taps lightly. We move closer to listen. She whispers, Gone, gone. Her strokes and seizures over the Covid years have taken away her words. They are trapped in her chest, throat, mouth. I say, I know, we know. My sister pats her shoulder. We look at each other. No need for words.
ii.
The day after T arrives, we stop at the Tractor Store on 24 Palms Highway to buy a 10-pound bag of wild seed for mom’s empty bird feeder. In the store I see a display for guns on sale for Christmas. The ad sports a photo of a boy holding up a BB gun, his dad smiling above him. Only one boxed gun remains. At our Airbnb that night, we watch the first Godfather movie. The opening wedding scene. The cotton balls in Brando’s cheeks. The horsehead on the pillow.
Ironically, my grief is at bay for now.
iii.
T and I are an hour away from our home in El Cerrito. The traffic on 580 has slowed. I stop reading the news about Trump’s upcoming inauguration on my phone.
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When I said goodbye to mom that morning, I hugged her frail body, told her I’d be back, and that I loved her. Silence. As I was leaving, her hospice care nurse said, Wait, I think she wants to say something. I turned. We both waited. You’re a very honest person. Then she lifted a spoonful of miso soup with rice.
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As we drive up to our condo building near the Del Norte Bart, we make a plan. Drop off our suitcases, T will return the car to the rental agency, and I will meet him there. The cold wind blasts at my bare legs, the headlights of the Amazon van bounce off my rear-view mirror. I turn the ignition. A minute later, my brain freezes up with pain, a head pain so severe I become nauseous. I continue to drive and as I turn the corner, I know that I’ll soon be in an emergency waiting room at Kaiser Richmond.
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A series of percussions:
Charred remnants from a house that burned down next to the monastery property.
Static electricity, my white hair flaming out despite the gel.
The grades I haven’t turned in.
Friday’s chanting session on Zoom, Buddhist nuns from around the world saying prayers for mom.
Two Wonder Bread trucks on the Grapevine.
Dad sitting in the dark, a near empty glass and a burning cigarette.
Grieving before grieving.
Colorful olive and peach waxed candles of Buddha.
My second oldest sister who passed away because her heart was too big.
The junta in Myanmar conscripting young men.
A character in The Godfather kissing the ring of the Don.
AI cats popping up on an IG reel.
Uncle’s shirt covered in blood.
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The advice nurse transfers my call to a doctor. Go to the emergency room now. Get a CT scan. You might have to spend the night. I’m in the waiting room. T has to wait outside in the cold air. I text him to go home. It’s 9pm. Lying on the gurney, I can hear a man on the other side of the curtain hacking and wheezing. He’s listening to a right-wing talk show and no one asks him to turn it down. My hands and feet are cold. The IV fluids don’t seem to make any difference. Blood tests. On the way home, I tell T that I am famished. I eat a plateful of strata he has made and take two Motrin.
I think about timing. How I might or might not be there for her last moments. How close Uncle was to losing his life. How mom happened to be on duty that night.
Maw Shein Win's (she/her) latest full-length poetry collection is Percussing the Thinking Jar (Omnidawn, 2024), which was shortlisted for the 2025 Northern California Book Award in Poetry. Her previous full-length collection, Storage Unit for the Spirit House (Omnidawn, 2020), was longlisted for the PEN America 2021 Open Book Award and shortlisted for the Golden Poppy Award for Poetry. She is the inaugural poet laureate of El Cerrito, California, the recipient of the 2025 Berkeley Poetry Festival Lifetime Achievement Award, and the 2025 Nomadic/SF Foundation Literary Award for Non-fiction. mawsheinwin.com