A Year Without Home

Candlelight
(May 14, before dawn)

When I wake,
it’s so early,
it feels like
the middle of the night.
A chorus of crickets
trills outside our door.
A noisy river toad
croaks
by the stream.

The smell of incense
floats toward me.
I follow it to the family altar
where Dad stands,
holding incense sticks in his hands.
Ribbons of smoke
curl from the tips of the incense,
sending messages to my grandfather
and our ancestors.

Dad is asking
for their protection and guidance
during our journey.
Like me and everyone else,
he’s sad to leave too.

Hurry, Mom says
when she spots me
in the shadows.

I rush back to our room,
lift my sisters from the bed,
help them dress by candlelight.
Yia is already up,
peeking out at the black sky.
He turns to me.

What if we don’t come back?

I don’t know.

What if we never find
another place like this?

What he means is
another place
like home.

But I can’t answer Yia
because I’m asking myself
the very same thing.


Baby Carriers

In the main room of the house,
Grandma passes
one nyias to each auntie,
helps strap the youngest kids
to their backs.
She pulls and wraps
the long sashes of the baby carriers
she sewed by hand
around my aunties’ waists and shoulders.

Auntie Shoua carries Chee.
Auntie Zong carries Fue.
Auntie Kia carries Mee.
Pai, Tong, and Hli will walk.

Mom grabs the nyias
my other grandmother made for her
and straps it to Round Moon,
boosts her up onto her back.

Dad lifts Good Xai
to sit on his shoulders.
I hold May Ia’s hand,
and Yia follows us to the door.

Then we step into the night,
Grandma beside my parents,
my uncles, aunties, and cousins
behind us,
each person carrying
a small bundle of belongings.

I told no one
I took my precious peach seeds
in the small cloth pouch
and tucked it into
the pocket of my skirt.


Or Worse

The air is warm,
but I can’t stop shivering.
I can’t stop worrying.
I can’t forget what Dad said.
What if communists catch us—
or worse?

Why can’t we take Dad’s jeep?
Yia’s voice is loud in the dark.

It’s an army jeep.
We can use only a taxi.
Mom’s voice is soft.

Dad must hide
that he’s a soldier.
If communist officials see him,
he could be arrested.
He said nobody
who works for the military
is safe right now.
So we must get to the secret planes
right away.
We won’t even have time
to pick up Mom’s mother, brothers, and sister
who live in another town
on the way.
Outside the door,
Ao Ka is lying on his side.
Yia sees him and pouts.

He doesn’t want to go without Ao Ka,
but Mom already said
we can’t take our dog with us.

Ao Ka lifts his head.
Yia kneels to rub Ao Ka’s back,
scratch between his ears,
and Dad speaks to him
one last time.

Take care of our house.
You’re a good dog, Ao Ka.

Yia stands,
rubs his eyes with his arm.
Tears slide down his cheeks,
drip off his chin.

I don’t want to leave Ao Ka
behind either.
I swallow,
put my hand in my pocket,
and hold on tight
to my peach seeds.