Our son’s called Le Tian
in his Mandarin school, a name
his grandmother—his Po—
gave him. But when I called down
from upstairs just now
he said, “No, that’s my Chinese
name. You call me Preston.”
He says he’ll call me Baba
because Dad is another name
for Grandpa. It is?
“Well,” he said, “that’s what
you call Grandpa.” So
when an awful dream shakes
him awake, makes him
cry, Preston calls out
Baba! and reaches for
my hand. So sure it’s there—
as I fumble for my glasses,
scramble out of bed—he keeps
his eyes squinched shut.
