2002
Was a California beach Ma took us to. Ba turned five months dead
in Vietnam. I hadn’t yet learned English and things were silent
for a long time. I still hear the water, the country in there.
Đừng đi xuống nước, Ma warned. So we kept to the backshore, and yet
the sea followed us inland. I saw it choke on my ankles, felt how cold it was.
I don’t know what else has died in it.
Other kids were gliding around with small colored buckets in their hands. They shrieked
when the water lapped their toes. They shrieked against the large sky. They shrieked
as they flew. Now I wonder what spirits they shrieked at.
Ma palmed the crown of her head with one hand, to keep from losing another
hat. The other, clenched inside the pocket of her jeans. Our shadows slanted, knocked
by passing years. I’ve been wanting something to hold.
We walked for a long time, quiet, alive. The ground did its grounding, below us
still. Sometimes I could sense, for a moment, a presence behind me. Turning, I
see the ocean and the darkness, concealing a face.
*Nước in Vietnamese simultaneously means water, country, and homeland.
Uyen Dang is a Vietnamese American first-generation immigrant, writer, and photographer. She earned her BA in anthropology from Dartmouth College and currently lives in Saigon, writing about air and alleyways. Outside of writing, she's eating bánh mì and feeding the crumbs to birds. Find more about her at uyenpdang.com or on Twitter @_uyendang.