A lull in the silence.
Her eyes wander into the distance,
into the past, and present.
Her body braced against the chair,
every so often swaying to the tunes
of the market and the wind.
Only the clockwork of her jaws is in motion,
grinding, staining her teeth red,
the leaves we call trầu.

​

As a kid, these halts of time
were too still,
too quiet,
too much nothingness.
Even the adventures of ant city
or the fight of lizard partners
or the solo centipede escapade
had exhausted my imagination.
Grandma whispered gently,
"Just stay here a bit longer."

​

Finally my cousin arrives on a
swift motorbike and a helmet
my size.
As a reward and a send off
Grandma places her nose unto my cheeks
a Vietnamese kiss,
one that breathes my life inside hers,
before I disappear.

​

A lull in the silence,
a funeral halfway across the world—
how I wonder if time could stop
and leaves nest back up on the branch
and water regress from the shore
and I'm in her arms again
so I can stay with her
a little more.