My grandfather made me a gift when I was born.
I used it for a while until another gift, my mother’s,
flashed in view. Common in its place of origin, here
her gift sparkled and sang, replaced the other.
Not that his was jostled aside, but it sort of slipped away.
No one seemed to mind, if they noticed, as it lay in disuse
and then was quite forgotten.

Today I retrieved his gift from its silence.
Barely, rarely used, it seemed mostly new.
Pristine. I tried it on.
It was a little strange,
as if from a world I hadn’t inhabited but had heard stories about
Sometimes I felt an imposter
Sometimes I thought it reflected hidden aspects I could own.

What vibrations are these?
Does this begin to become me,
do I to it belong?
This translucent, slowly-yielding music
Chinese name.