The Scarf My Father Brought from Manchuria

I rescued it from obscurity
underneath a stack of silks
in the second to highest drawer
silks that traveled in a suitcase from Happy Valley
over the Hump, by air or sea to Oran
by ship to the port of Baltimore

Fine ivory silk, two small red and yellow birds
embroidered on one end, memento of war
evidence that my father survived disease, near-starvation

Is this why my mother saved the scarf, never wore it
buried it like she buried stories of those years
spoke only of sending her seventh-grade student
to fetch her mail at home, letters from China
words and whole sentences blacked out by the censors?

I loved the cool fabric against my skin
wanted to unfold and unfold the square
drape it around my shoulders like an evening stole
if she wasn’t going to wear it, shouldn’t I be allowed to?

When no one else was home, I made my special visit
to the cloth spun by little worms, cloth of value and elegance
cloth sewn with tiny needles hat pulled colored thread
to make feathers of little birds, branches of living trees

cloth that flew in a suitcase in a plane over the Himalayas
cloth aboard a ship anchored in Oran harbor
cloth that sailed to the Port of Baltimore
to our brick rowhouse, second floor, back bedroom
mahogany chest of drawers

How I coveted the scarf, how magical it was
something to be treasured, held to my cheek,
smelled over and over, something never used
unfolded and carefully refolded so no one would notice

Nestled among its fellows, embroidered silk handkerchiefs
pillow slips, camisoles—the ivory scarf was pure,
not just a thing from a past I was never part of
and didn’t want—or need—to understand.

Lynne Viti is a poet and community arts activist in eastern Massachusetts. Her most recent poetry collection is The Walk to Cefalù (Cornerstone Press, 2022). A finalist for the 2025 Beals Poetry Prize, she served as the inaugural Poet Laureate of Westwood, Massachusetts from 2023-2025.