Get Up Eight

The announcement arrives at 5pm

On a Friday.

I’m moments out of a 45-minute plus 30-minute avalanche of info, parent meeting plus internal logistics of safely reopening.

An exhausting week of planning, replanning, planning again. Managing the safe reentry of 450 kids in the midst of of a pandemic is no longer easy. It probably never was.

I’m hopeful. And ready.

I slowly reach down to lace up my boots and extend my left leg, trying to get a stretch in before footie. 

Looks wet out there

I pause and try to decide whether to tie my shoes now or later. For some reason I’ve never felt compulsive about tying before walking. Something in me likes the flip flap of loose string trailing behind in the grass.

I’m halfway out the door when I remember my mask

Probably need that

I step into the cool evening, mind overloaded and spilling over, when I see the arc of the ball.

I pick up my pace, ready to forget about school and life for a while and just kick things, when Mr. T says a quick hello and holds up his phone

I got a letter from the government.

Suddenly Chuck D takes over

…the other day, I opened and read it, it said they were suckers. They wanted me for their army or whatever

But am quickly jolted back to reality as he, not Chuck, informs me

It’s not good

I see the official stamp and detailed paragraphs in what appears to be some sort of government comm

We will not open Monday.

What?

I pause, waiting for him to say he’s just kidding

The letter just arrived in my email. No schools in Hanoi will open Monday for grades 1-6.

So.

Uh-huh.

I pause and wait for this turn of events to sink

Huh.

So it goes, in these COVID times. We sit. And wait. And wonder about the best way forward.

That ball is going to get knocked tonight.

Crust. 

That’s the best way to describe the feeling the exposed parts of your face take on. They become crust.

An unrelentingly cold prairie morning, sun blazing, rapping my mittens against the tetherball pole to see how the flakes of ice would shatter, then slither.

I am so f***ing cold

But fully awake, and this world, though frozen, is alive.

My nose runs, but not for long. Any kind of production or flow halted by -23. Stuck on my lip until I return to the sudden blast of central heating

**

Which, by the way, doesn’t exist here.

I step outside and straddle the motorbike, shimmy and shake it back towards the gate

This cold hits different

For one, the drops of rain come at an angle. Being February, this is no Moldy March mist.

This is real rain. And humid, soak-you-to-the-bones cold.

I’m equally grateful for my waterproof poncho and the warmth of elephant as he snuggles in behind. Behind him perches Rhino. Three abreast is pretty much the norm here.

We do not appear out of place.

Papa

Rhino’s voice skirts the wind

Did you know that our senses are unable to distinguish between cold and wet?

Cool 

I think

But in this moment it doesn’t matter which one we’re talking about.

As we ride, Snowpiercer chills take me.

This may have been a mistake

But the boys, as ever, remain unphased. Not even a sniff of whinge.

So grateful for these two

We meander, as motorbikes do here, rarely cresting 40. I’m okay with that, even though it extends the chill.

Today would have been a good day to wear goggles.

I debate digging into the boys’ bag for swim goggles, but numb handed gymnastics so my helmet can fit over top of the goggles and masks is just too much.

I tweeze drops out of my eyes, secretly yearning for summer days that everyone complains are too hot.

J’s voice finds its way to my ears

Life is simply preparing to die so we know best how to live

Her words vibrato as knuckles clench, ice fuels rain, puddles leap at my feet. 

I’m so very cold, but fully awake.

My boys are close

and the world feels alive.

I breeze past the woman straining to hoist the baby onto her back, weighing whether it makes sense to stop and help.

nah

She’ll be fine

And as I catch a glimpse of her in my rear view, doing just that.

I remember Rhino and Elephant, gently snuggling them in, at different times, to the baby carrier, preparing to hike

It feels so undeniably fresh

I am Right. There. Now. In my mind.

And I have a moment of realization

we’ll never do that again

And it is sad

And so, I know that I must write about it

---

And so, here I am.

For the 31st time this past 31 days. Today with a sense of finality. And affirmation, that what we have done here is packaged up and presented tiny gifts to our future selves.

I know I’ll be back

Perhaps as a curious observer to my history, perhaps as host.

Most likely as both.

A spectator to my past self, an inspiration to future.

J pointed out, early in this journey, to keep a key question in mind.

who are you writing for

And while at its heart, I know it’s been me

It’s been nice to have company along the way

I’m starting to understand displacement!

I think I’m getting these ideas

Rhino sits, ensconced on the couch in the fuzzy blue blanket, laptop atop lap, trailing the single earbud anchored in his left ear. Staring, as ever, at the screen. Typing away.

This is the brave new world for today’s high school frosh.

I’m kind of old school, and so accordingly commence my dadsplaining.

You should write them down

if you use a pencil and paper, you’ll be more likely to retain them, they’ll stick better for the test. Why don’t you sit over at the desk so you can set up with a pencil and paper, so you can write them down.

He hesitates, and gives me a confident, if dismissive, wave.

I’ve got this, papa. I’m understanding it.

I walk out of the room with a roll of my eyes. It’s a conversation we’ve had many times and deep down, we both know I’m right

Ha.

So, naturally, being right, it is my duty to get the last words in.

I’m marking these words, we’ll see how the test goes. Definitely marking these words.

And, as I head down the stairs, almost out of earshot, I hear his reply

You should write them down

Three

the holy trinity, the rule of thirds

a magic number

---

The boys squat, face forward, together

but they look in different directions

One left, one right, and the third, straight down.

Two older gentlemen, only their feet visible behind the boys, share a smoke and lean on their motorbikes

being the fourth and fifth in this scene, they’re irrelevant.

This one is about the young.

The three.

---

Batman, the vigilante, ready to take arms, defend his brothers, fight for justice. Towel over shoulder, wide brim shadowing, bare knees hovering over sandals, eyebrows raised, at attention

heads up, boys

Ting, he’s all glue, calm reserve. Prepared for what’s to come and confident in his plan. He rests, elbows atop knees. Checkered mask secured to his ear and readied under his chin. The centre of attention, he radiates out. There’s a plan, and intent, and purpose, with Ting.

we’re good

He knows he’s cool.

And Sport?

Well, now, Sport.

He’s the wild card. Offering the best protection and the greatest warmth. Head bowed, but he’s not broken. He picks at his nail idly, hood enveloping his thoughts, just heating up for the next act. He’s the source of comfort. And comic relief.

make me laugh, Sport

---

The boys squat, facing forward, together

But they look in different directions

And.

As I take in this three,

so awake,

so here,

so now

I realize that there was a time

when I knew what they know

when I saw what they see

---

So,

again

I slow down

take a breath,

and try to decide whose gaze I should follow

It’s been a misty, socked-in week. Air is moist, closets are musty. The sun and moon lie hidden, dormant.

I miss the sun and moon

It’s less a storefront and more a room, inside a house

down a quiet lane, just off a quiet lane, down another quiet lane

it’s a bit hidden,

but there’s treasure within.

I pedal slowly, down our tree-lined street. It skirts a lagoon, riddled with trash but somehow also layered with green, and life, and beauty

gotta see the good

Our shopping bike with two glass containers lining the basket makes its way down to Mr. Hoang’s.

I pass a neighbour, greens overflowing his arms, the leash to his pup straining

He barks an order to the dog

She doesn’t bark back.

I arrive just outside the metal gate, bend down and peer through the keyhole. Give a quick rap, and hear his footsteps.

He welcomes me in and we traverse the steps into his shop.

His kiosk / living room / acupuncture studio / gym is no bigger than a luxury bathroom. Posters outlining meridians affixed neatly on the wall, a couple massage tables snug up to the walls at right angles. A cold stone floor under his sandals.

Today, I’m about the nuts, but I’m curious about the acupuncture.

I could use a boost in chi

I ask after an appointment.

He takes the two glass cylinders from my bag, gently unrolls the paper sacks, and pours them in. One filled with almonds, the other cashews.

His hands are careful, measured.

I cannot treat you for acupuncture today

Are you available this week?

I explain that I’m working, daytime is difficult.

It would be best for you to come in the middle of the day

The best treatment lines up with the sun and moon.

He smiles, and I do too.

I know I’ve come to the right place.

I love anything from Oliver Jeffers, he manages to fit so much between the pages of a picture book. Joy, without cliche.

Today I feel stuck, my kite up a tree

Inert, rigid, slothlike, fixed.

---

I should all over myself, tell myself that what’s happening isn’t good enough, that I need to be a productive member of society, a better parent

but that voice isn’t helpful, and it’s no help in getting me unstuck

---

But, if we’re thinking like Oliver,

maybe there’s a way out.

I take a step, tossing my shoe, hat, a friend’s bicycle

Small boats and big boats

Orangutans and lighthouses.

Nothing seems to work.

My kite is still stuck.

Just then

Elephant walks up, snuggles in, book in hand, no agenda other than being

Here, now

So.

Instead of pushing, and tossing, and flailing away

I think it’s best I take a step back, draw in, take a breath,

and let the wind do its work

It’s difficult to be both, at once.

We greet one another and, like always, check in about the mundane. She asks after me, I mention that I’m recovering, been catching up on sleep.

How are you?

She pauses, and her face drops. Glances away and wipes away a single tear

There’s a moment of quiet discomfort, between.

Last week at this time he was here

and I can’t understand why he’s gone

Now, the tears flow.

She had shared the news of his loss and been away from work, but we’d chatted since then.

Sad, but strong.

Today is hitting her differently.

He was going up to the mountain and jumping off with the big…umbrella?

She searches for the word

He jumped but the wind was…

she swirls the air with her arms

His umbrella got twisted around and didn’t open

and now he’s gone

I’m so sorry

It’s okay to be sad

I’m not sure what to offer, apart from a gentle hug and encouragement for her to head home, to rest, to grieve.

He was always a good boy

His sons were looking in the box and saw him lying there, and asking “why is papa there?” “why is papa there?”.

She wipes another tear away.

I need to go

Ok.

Let me know if there’s anything I can do.

And, like that

She puts on her mask and helmet, gently wheels her bike outside the gate

and slides it closed.

The first thing that draws my attention is his multi-layered pith helmet, straight from the jungle. Then, it’s his smooth black leather jacket and cargo pants.

Finally, the flip flops, toes peeking out, nestled atop the pedals and carving his rhythmic cadence.

He’s flying. A swashbuckler, land pirate. All flair and dash, on full display, ready to plunder.

His mamachari is pristine: fenders, back rack, front basket, and bell, each shinier than the rest.

We’ve been out for a good 20k at this point, cruising just north of Hanoi near the Red River. We’ve left the riverside and are making our way through suddenly-delineated lanes and shops that tell us we’re on the edge of a town.

When he sees us, he jumps into action. Swoops alongside, daring and darting, matching our pace.

At first we’re confused, not sure why or how he’s decided to keep up with us. We straddle the line between amusement and discomfort.

Why is he joining us?

It’s mostly good natured fun, so we play along, confident that with our road bikes we can clearly outpace him.

So we think.

Turns out he’s riding the little bike that could, and his engine keeps up with ours, despite having a single gear.

Funny trick, this – if he wants to go faster, he pedals faster. And it’s immediately clear that he knows these streets much better than we do.

We round the corner and head deeper into town. He continues apace, alongside, turning with a wry grin, and even nudging ahead.

He looks back and waves at us.

Come on, let’s go!

The four of us ease to halt at a stoplight, and he finally sees a chance to say hello.

So he does.

Xin chao!

Xin chao!

We shoot him a hearty wave and big smile. He seems happy to join our fun.

G consults his phone

We’ll need to u-turn and head down that road

Surely, this is our time to finally part ways. We bid him adieu.

Bye bye!

But, despite our best efforts to evade, he has other plans. He makes the same u-turn and shouts something above the noise of the traffic, pointing towards the corner. He extends his arm over his head.

It looks like a roof

I think he’s inviting us over for a frothy beverage or tea. But not for us, today. We need to get home.

I apologize and say thank you.

But either he won’t take no for an answer, or he doesn’t understand.

Persistence is valued, here in Vietnam.

We wave goodbye and pull away, or so we think. He’s unbowed, pedalling twice as fast, flip flops flopping and flipping in time with the spiralling pedals and spinning wheels.

He’s keeping up.

inconceivable!

But, we truly know it can’t last. As we open into a long straight, into the wind, and pick up our pace, he finally yields.

I turn back and give him a nod and a wave. He slows and waves back.

And I wonder what might have been, with more time and space.

I sit alone downstairs, bathing in warm light. The rest of the family dozes, floors up.

Typing away, aiming to finish this late night work.

The street is a dark chocolate, when suddenly it gets darker. The orange street light cuts out.

Must be time for bed

I peer out the glass, barely making the outline of our gate. There’s not much to see, an occasional motorbike putzing by to bathe the narrow lane with a flash

The light is temporal, as all things, and the dark returns.

And that’s when I see

that I’m not alone

There’s movement, a flurry of tail and fluff

must be that cat again

When I see the long, wet noodle, trailing behind.

that’s not a moon, it’s a space station

Rat.

It’s not unusual to see them in these parts, especially in our neighbourhood. Traversing the wires, suspended overhead, silent, but always, always, full of purpose. A quick, silent show, and gone.

But this one has business with me. He looks my way, nonchalant.

I see you

He pauses a whisker too long

I’ve seen you before

and now I know where you live

As big as Ripred. Smart as a whip, red.

Trying to decide if he’s going to mess with me now, or mess with me later. Credit to this guy, he’s got some big old rat balls.

He lingers for what seems like minutes and I decide whether to go and bang on the glass to shoo him away.

do I get up, or stand my ground

But it’s he who calls the shots, here and now.

Our one-sided standoff finally ends as he shoots me a final, derisive sneer and makes his way into the gloom.

Later, mate

I’ll be seeing you around