no farther than the summer's edge

for those bygone afternoons when even in the distance home felt close.

today i found a worm in the boiled greens, and one in the corn. both had died. i didn’t see them until it was too late. i hope they’ll come back in a gentler place.

my first graveyard took shape a few years ago.

then my second graveyard.

and now, this place has become my third

this one goes out to grandma #1 — the one who always handed me the things no other kid in the family wanted to eat: banh nuong thap cam, amaranth greens or broccoli. and since i was a soft obedient kid, i always did. even as my cousins teased me with glee. funny thing is, somewhere along the line, those rejects ended up becoming my favorites.

grandma #1 kind of raised me. since my parents were often away, i naturally fell into her orbit: eating when she ate, sleeping when she did, slowly syncing to her rhythm. and come summer, she’d wake me at dawn so we could head to the market together. maybe that’s why i’ve always been an early riser, i never sleep in. i’d haul her shopping bags like a mini mule. the handles cutting deep lines into my hands.

she liked her air cold — fans on full blast, AC set to polar-bear-level chill — i was always freezing, but she never seemed to mind.

she always insisted on helping me with the dishes, even when i told her i could manage. and if she caught me complimenting a dish my mom made, she’d whip up her own version immediately — except three times the size. her spring rolls were basically burritos.

she always insisted on helping me with the dishes, even when i told her i could manage. and if she caught me complimenting a dish my mom made, she’d whip up her own version immediately — except three times the size. her spring rolls were basically burritos.

she snored at night, just like her son (my dad) — but hers i could sleep through.

there were times i didn’t visit as often as i should’ve — and grandma #1 would always take it personally. but if i just sat with her and listened to her vent, she’d soften quickly and warm right back up to me. and just like that, she’d bring out dishes she’d saved from a week ago — food she was sure i liked, the same ones my dad always frowned at: 'why are you feeding him that?' when it was time for me to leave, she’d walk me to the door and wave until i was completely out of sight.

my dog
who disappeared,
may you sleep soundly
in the form of this
cat I found, have
taken in to heal,
address as being in
league with you and
your form, until all
or much is mended.

Prayer - Michael Burkard

there used to be a Japanese restaurant called Kỷ Y nestled at the end of Triệu Việt Vương street, shaded by towering teak trees with leaves bigger than my face. For over ten years, it was a quiet favorite — for me, for my family. The restaurant lived inside an old three-story French villa, full of winding little hallways and staff members who always seemed to pop out of nowhere just to bow and greet you, startlingly so.. But i’d grown used to those familiar faces and their voices. The place shut down in early 2022, and though some staff went on to work at Khang, its sibling restaurant, thing just hasn’t been the same.

one of my favorite dishes: neba neba; it always puts me in a good mood.

quiet lunches or noisy dinners with people i care about.

playing Animal Crossing with a handful of roasted ginkgo nuts. Every year as the year wound down, Kỷ Y would send guests off with a bowl of soba for good luck.

staff would always be standing by the door, waiting to help. And if you ate quietly enough, you'd catch them chatting about all sorts of things.

the last time i was here, it was with my niece.

the heart is a stone
and this is a stone that we throw
put your hand on this stone
it's the stone of a home you know

i brought Xô home on a quiet night. He was tiny, light as a breath — a little tuxedo cat with a black mask over his eyes. Batman, some said. A bandit, i thought. He’d been found on the roadside, eyes still shut. The shelter took him in and syringe-fed him for a month. Somehow against the odds, he made it — that’s how i got to bring him home. And he settled in quickly. Soon enough he was waddling around like a little old man. Maybe because he never had a mother or never found a foster, he grew into himself in a way that felt a little... other. He moved with a certain clumsiness. Always a little slow. A little drowsy-looking. And while most cats might play or chase one another around, Xô kept to himself — unless he was with me. He stuck close. Always came when i called. We used to nap together all the time side by side on the bed or the floor. He lay quietly in my lap as i studied. i talked to him in the most embarrassing voice i’ve ever had.

there was a night i let him out — just for a moment. But he slipped into the dark and didn’t come back until morning. Sick and exhausted. Without the antibodies a mother’s milk would’ve given him, he couldn’t fight it off. He just faded. And i watched him go.

because the illness he carried was contagious, we had to cremate him. i scattered his ashes in a quiet corner of West Lake — a place i go when i want to be alone. i cried. And somehow, crying made me feel selfish. i’ve never stopped thinking about what happened. i’m thinking about it again now. Even as i write this i can still feel the weight of it. Maybe it’s something i’ll carry for the rest of my life. i just hope that someday i’ll learn to hold it with more grace.

late that night, after everything, i came across those lines. Back then i wasn’t sure they were meant for me. But they stayed. Now, looking back at the photos from those days, reading those words again, for a moment, they make the past all feel a little less sharp. And somewhere in them, i catch a glimpse of something vast. And gentle. And maybe even light.