They’re the most plain ones who
you can always meet on
any unknown street
Owning nothing other than their names,
a few acquaintances,
two or three children
and children’s children.
They’re always the ones who
are hard to be remembered
 
They’re also the ones
accompanied mostly by photos
and memories
Having no pains
compared with those in truly deep sufferings
Having sour pains
Compared with their younger lives
They’re always the ones
who are waiting to be recalled
In wordless silence
 
They’re the ones
with immense of secrets
Secrets you never know
Secrets on how they were born,
how they grew up,
their first full-mark test paper,
their first job, first secret love
how they got birth to your mom and dad
why they cried, why they laughed
why they drank alcohol,
smiling or in tears
Or why they suddenly smoked one day.
They’re always the ones
sinking into the past
alone,
being the only audience to the play
 
They’re the ones who
you can read easily
In patience
In curiosity
In respect
In love
With twinkling eyes
With a glimmer of smile
With a nod, meaning paying attention
Give a hug, expressing support
Give a promise
that this kind of listening
is not the last
They’re always the ones
who will be simply satisfied
by these cozy moments,
the time spending
with generations of kids
who finally and
still
grow up