have a sip of tea - life at mother day

life at first mother day.

it lived a life not many can say they have.

eleven children, two men by name:

one taught it how to live,

the other, how to love.

but even with all of that,

it never got to fully experience the world the way we do now, in protest, for equal rights still out of reach—

it knew too many tongues to teach,

learned them all just to survive in wartime's will to stay alive.

conky wished it to see it once—

but it was gone,

& time didn't stand still for it,

it tried, it really did, with all its might,

but it still couldn’t make it.

ba ngoai đã đi về với ông rồi.

in the end,

what we all saw was

a wooden casket that kept it from us.

one son who waited far too late now lives each day with grief and regret.

another drinks to numb the ache.

a daughter kept herself busy in the kitchen to stay well,

while another held it in her arms as breath withdrew,

the eldest begged everyone, "just touch its hand."

like somehow it would bring it back.

the fifth, expected to be cold, wept,

but didn’t break down like everyone expected.

its granddaughter—barely aware—

now craves freedom in the air, rebellion burning in its chest.

while two grandsons drove without rest—

thirty hours just to stand before goodbye slipped through their hand,

& then they'll spread their wings.

the youngest grandson cried, whistled to the air, "please, ba, stay with me somewhere."

please watch it— as it continues through life—

it'll need its guidance, as they all did, in their place.

life—it cannot be expressed

in lines or breath or hearts confessed.

it wanted to show someone special,

but never got the chance to do.

funny, how it warned it before: “When He gives you something, He will take something you value deeply."

seven years ago, that line—“never,” said the little conky.

“never say never,” replied ba.

& now it can’t even use the phrase:

“if I don’t let my Ba Ngoai do it, why would I let you?”

it won’t be there at the last fire,

but it got to see it, flesh expired.

it didn’t want to touch it—

was that fear?

to make it real?

no lectures, now,

or maybe it didn’t want to face the silence,

they fought, disagree, and clashed in tone—

different times,

but seeds were sown.

they learned through shouting, met halfway, and laughed what they used to say *“people ain't it. their bravely doesn't excuse their stupidity. Lol”*

it will miss its gentle scold.

it will miss its touch.

the lessons told a hundredfold: "respect our elders—even when they’re wrong.

respect isn't about being right or wrong,

respect is just respect all along."

its words are final—always.

& don’t forget to give ông a beating for them,

like it always joked, "give him a few!"

they say the sky and stars are unlimited—

but nothing's really as it seems.

a life once gone can't be returned—

no riches, praise, or power can exchange for a single soul.

surrounded by the best in white,

even they lost to the night.

it hoped to see one grandchildren wed—

but now, its prayers, instead,

bless great-grandkids it never knew—

but somehow, it knew they’d pull through.

its hat, its shades—it took them on.

they're its now, but the cane is gone.

it’ll come back to take it too.

it should have recorded its

voice—the chance it flew.

if it want those things back,

find it in its dream again.

talk to it like way back when.

it was its last grandparent,

now none are left.

not one. not two.

*sniffle*

it'll miss the stitching tips,

& pants too tight for growing hips—

“it’s not the pants,” it used to tease,

“your butt just grew! stop eating, please.”

it's thankful for those final three years: full of gold—

the xôi, the weekend trip, the crab it'd hold in secret bites, the bargaining, the laughs, the yelling, arguing—

“tell them off!” it said with grin in Mien and Vietnamese.

people called it wild to leave it all—its job, school, friends, family—just to be with ba.

but regrets? it held none, ever.

all of that will still be here when it come back.

ba wouldn’t, never.

eleven kids it raised with pride.

& they tried to carry on what it started.

they gathered ‘round as Ba had died.

& all it has are pictures now—

it don’t know how it did it, but it did.

it brought close, from far and wide.

“let’s meet up, every other tide.”

it promise.

time doesn’t wait.

each year, a loved meets their fate.

& time, it isn't short or long,

sometimes we don’t appreciate what we have until it slips away.

*“ the gian không bao giờ chờ một người nào đâu. Nó không bao giờ.”*

health so fragile,

but if you don’t take care of it,

you won’t know when your time is up.

people offer their condolences—but why wait until someone’s gone?

say "i love you" while they’re near.

say "i'm sorry," loud and clear.

don't wait till the body gone cold—

words left unsaid are like weeds—

they sprout and kill us from within.

let’s not let regret take root.

get checkups.

parents?

stubborn as they come—

still care too much how things look from the outside in.

they work nonstop to forget,

grieve in silence.

hide their stress.

money mattered in their war.

but that’s not living.

our culture? deep, and beautiful,

but sometimes trauma too.

pride gets in the way.

our parents don’t always know how to express themselves,

so they project their aching through scream, or scold.

& they hold their ache—

while grief storms silently like rain.

rebirth takes time.

we live in the West—

where work is praised and rest suppressed.

but we must shift,

& help them see that

we have to value people,

not just work.

our parents and grandparents grew up in war,

where foods was scarse and money is golden.

but how do we, as their children, help them now?

now we must help their fingers slip from fear, from ache, from silent cries—

teach them truth behind goodbyes.

we’re taught to respect our elders—to never raise our voice.

even a higher pitch is seen as disrespectful.

but where’s the line between respect and silence?

between rebirthing and hiding?

& what’s the cost when our own voices too are lost?

they mask their grief with daily tasks,

but grief leaks through despite their masks.

actions speak louder than words.

Asians, we can be our own worst critics, even when we're grown.

Western kids may play, explore— while ours were taught to clean the floor.

then we scoff at others’ ways,

forgetting we were once that age.

then we judge those families who parent differently.

are we right?

are they wrong?

it don’t know.

but what it do know is this:

it want its future kids to grow up understanding how to grieve healthily—not bottle it all inside;

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