I See You

I still see you, Mom. 

I see you when I look in the mirror.  My nose is yours.  And, sweet Ruby has the same nose.  Your brothers and grandma, A Pò,  were so excited to meet her over a year ago, "She looks so much like her, huh?" they chimed as their broad noses widened with excitement. 

 

 

I see you in Bennet.  At times, when her will and independence reigns, I know it's you.  You always used to say, "We can figure it out, con. Bìa, we can find a way."  Whether it's putting on her own shoes, pulling up a chair to reach an item tucked away or eating self-peppered strawberries to prove to me they're good, she surely has your pride.  At times, to a fault. 

 

I see you when I see the girls together.  They do love each other so much.  I see you because you raised, Kim, Dan and I to love one another.  To depend on one another.  We do, and I am grateful for that. 

 

 

 

I see you when the girls' little hands reach for pistachios.  They cannot get enough.  So, my hands move as fast as yours to remove the shells.  I always manage to sneak a few for myself. 

 



 

I see you when the girls are eating.  They love cá, salmon .  Bennet loves phở.  Jeremy and I just bought them their first pairs of chopsticks.  Benny is so proud when she uses them.

 

I see you when I see a beautiful sunset or sunrise. I remember that last year we were together.  We would go to the high school track.  I would get in a run, and you would walk.  You wore your child-sized New Balances and soft denim capris.  When you tired, you would sit on the bench and wait for me.  Each time I turned the final corner of the lap, I would see you swinging your legs.  Your feet could not reach the ground.  I saw the most beautiful sunsets that year.

 

 

I hear you when the girls shout out the artist's name when the first few notes of a song comes on the radio.  "Neers (Lumineers)!  Mraz (Jason)! Five (Maroon Five)!  One Public (One Republic)!  Madonna!"  They love all kinds of music.  Guess what, they love Cyndi Lauper.  I hear you singing along with them. 

 

I hear you when I sing to the girls.  The words are different.  The song is different.  But, I hear you singing along with me. 

 

I smell jasmin, and I know you are close.  Right now, our archway is in full bloom.  You loved jasmine so much.  You would put on your flip flops each evening when the blooms opened.  You would pick them off the bush and put them in a clear bowl.  "Bia, con, smell this.  So good."  You would do this every evening.  New blooms would come back the next day, waiting for you to carefully pick them.   

 

I hear you when life gets hard.  When the work is overwhelming.  "Figure it out, con. Bìa, you can find a way."  And, I always do. 

 

I smell home when I cook.  The smell of fresh lettuce, mint leaves, fish sauce, soy sauce and fish.  I love it.

 

I feel you each time Jeremy holds me.  The last time you spoke to him, you asked him to take care of me, "Take care, Bìa."  The night he proposed, he reiterated your words, and he has kept his word.  Everyday.  He is a gentle and kind husband, and he keeps your spirit and words alive with the girls.  And, one day, he will teach them to dance in the same way you taught him to dance. 

 

I see you, Mom.  And, one day, I'll see you again.   





Soul Brothers, Soul Sisters

Today is Mother's Day, and, on this day, I will say I am ever-so-blessed to be called a Mama myself.  Though a tough day, I am grateful for my "motherfull" life, two cherubs and kind Jeremy. 

On this day, I also take the time to join hands, in thought and spirit, with me fellow Soul Brothers and Soul Sisters.  Those who have also lost a Mama.  Those who can empathize.  On Friday, I was sitting with fellow co-workers.  One woman was speaking about her 90 year-old mother.  The other woman was speaking about her own mother who passed a few years ago.  I sat between both women, and I felt at home.  They spoke of how it feels to "parent" your parent, how to give an ailing parent perceived autonomy, how hard it is to care for a parent while juggling your own life and children.  I quietly sat and listened.  From experience, it was not the time to share my own Mama story.  Then, it happened.  "Phuong, do you have both your parents?"  My eyes teared up, "Mom passsed away eight years ago.  I understand."  Our working relationship catapulted into another echelon.  We had both experienced the loss of a mother.  She understood me, and the value of that is immeasurable. 

Friends have reached out to me recently with consoling words, offers of "let's talk", suggestions of going to therapy, texts, hugs.  I know there is much love around me, and I appreciate it.  I really, really do.  I will acknowledge that the most comfortable conversations have taken place with those who have walked the path of loss.  With my Brothers and Sisters, not much verbage needs to be exchanged.  Tears lay the foundation for common understanding, and we walk away a bit lighter.  She understands.  He understands.  I find comfort in that.

So, today, dear Brothers and Sisters, I am sending so much love to you.  Regardless of age, gender, ethnicity, we are part of this family, and I am thankful for you.  Thank you for walking alongside me as I live my everydays sans Mama.  I wish us fond memories, humor, self-patience and inner-peace. 

Egg Love



Recently, a co-worker gave me half a dozen fresh eggs.  I knew exactly what to make.  My palette and memory, at times, feel that the word "Mom" is synonymous with the word "food".  Man, could Mom cook.  If I had to divide Mom's brain into subsections, food would surely take up 80% of her brain capacity.  If she was not cooking, she would be thinking about what to feed us for the next meal, washing dishes from the previous meal or going to/from the Asian market.  With the eggs I received from Cole, I started making one of my favorite dishes, soy sauce eggs.  It is a savory dish composed of meat and eggs simmered in a brown sauce. 

 

This is my third attempt at this dish.  The first time, I was newly engaged and wanted to make a nice dinner.  My taste buds were dissapointed with the overly boiled eggs and bland sauce.  It was one of multiple poor attempts at recreating Mom's dishes.  Jeremy sat there and ate every bit of it. His compliments did not alleviate my dissapointment.  I wanted so badly to get a taste of her food.  It was the one thing I could do to bring her back a bit, and I failed. 

 

I  made the dish a second time.  I was now a Mama.  The girls had already gone to bed, and Jeremy had fallen asleep with Bennet.  So, it was just me, my eggs and a myriad of bottles filled with brown liquid.  I started taking out what I could find that could potentially create the sauce...soy sauce, teriyaki sauce, seasame oil.  As the dish cooked, I put some jasmin rice into the rice cooker.  Twenty mintues later, my kitchen smelled like home and my rice was ready.  I sat at my kitchen table and took a bite.  It was perfect.  As the egg and pork went down my throat, the tears came up.  I did it.  It tasted just like Mom's. It took me eight years to figure it out.  My tears salted my bites, and I was escastic. 

 

Today is my third time to make this dish.   The eggs were dimpled from poor peeling execution, and, once again, I guessed at my work.  With one successful execution in the bag, I simply cooked.  I thought of her as I peeled the eggs.  How come her eggs were so smooth?  I thought about her as the sauce slightly splashed when I dropped the eggs in the pot. She would have surely made a comment about the stain on my shirt.  I took a bite of the fatty beef.  It was good, and she would have approved, "Con, child, it's good.  Next time put in more sugar, một chút đường.  It's good."

 

When I sit down to eat this tomorrow, I'll think of Mom.  I am not sure if there will be tears this time.  I am confident that as I finish the meal, my brain will start to think about Wednesday's meal for Jeremy, Bennet and Ruby.  I have found peace in making heart-meals for my family, and I am grateful. 

 

 



Grateful

 

The other day I was talking to Kim.  Just 11 months younger than me, I sometimes forget who is older sometimes.  "You okay?" she asked, as our conversation was coming to an end.  After briefly discounting her question, I realized she was referring to this very blog.  I quickly took a short breath, unsure of her next sentiments.  "Just making sure you're okay."  That was the extent of our conversation.  My sister and I can fill the seas with our dialogue.  Other times, our silence gently lends to an easy understanding with one another. 

 

Honestly, when I first started all of this, I was only thinking of myself.  Self-pity and lonliness accompany each other well.  When Kim brought this up, I was reminded that there are two other people who do know what I am feeling. There are two other people who lived alongside me in our two bedroom mobile home.  There are two other people who lost the same mother.  I remember standing between Kim and Dan on the day they buried Mom.  We had front row seats as her casket was lowered.  As the pulleys easily worked to placed my sweet/feisty/tenacious mother into the ground, each of my hands gripped tightly onto the only people who truly, truly understood me in that life moment. 

 

I am grateful for my brother and sister.  I know we were our mother's entire world.  To a fault.  She would sew for 10 hours a day to buy us namebrand jeans.  She would work in a Chrysler factory for years to find money to pay for  knock-off Cabbage Patch dolls, band instruments, crossiants.  When she no longer worked because of the stupid cancer, she crocheted holiday pins for me to sell at my Student Government meetings in college.  "Maybe sell them for $3? I can make a bit of money."  I still have those pins.   

 

Mom's happiness was directly tied to the three of us.  Her joy was the fruits of an unseen, but strongly felt, umbilical cord that fed her soul and attached to her three offspring.  She was careful not to boast about our accomplishments; nonetheless, every wall in our home was embellished with shadow boxes of insignificant medals we earned in school and newspaper clippings with our pictures at coloring contests/science fairs/perfect attendance ceremonies.  She loved us too much, and we are better for it.  

Kim, Dan and I hold the pages to Mom's stories.  Together, we find ways to live her life.  Together, we have not been able to recreate her eggrolls, tell her stories, make her fruit pizza.  The part that really makes this all count is that we do it together.  For all that my mother has taught me and has given me, I cannot be more grateful for my brother and my sister.    I just need to remind myself that this journey has been buffered by two earth angels who come from the same genetic pool.