Get Up Eight

It’s the perfect combination of sweet and savory.

I nod in the direction of the woman in the red apron and take my place on the square blue plastic chair, knees raised slightly above the height of the stool.

It’s mere seconds between when I sit down to when the plates of food arrive. The first, a jumble of white rice noodles, newly-scissored. The second, greens: lettuce, cilantro, lemon leaves, and mint.

The third is what brings it all together.

A souplike, sweet broth tinted with fish sauce, featuring young underripe papaya, carrot, and, most importantly,

the cha.

Grilled pork is the flavor of the day.

I ease the noodles into the broth, then grab chopsticks full of greens and dunk. Wait a few seconds to let the flavors marry.

They come together in what has to be the greatest lunch around.

Apart from pho, of course.

The dose of reality that arrives with a dose of rice noodles, comes when I pay the bill, and realize I spent $1.85, for the best lunch ever.

And I know I’ll be back.

---

It’s a drizzly night.

Seems Moldy March is hitting its stride.

I pull the bike up the curb and roll along the sidewalk, easing to stop as I lever the kickstand out.

I jump off to grab some cash from the ATM

There’s no one around

It’s late

Wait.

Actually, there is one being here

And she is a unit

Oozing out, like burger juices at the gastro pub

I first notice the shell, ringed, layered, a collection of grays and beige. Then I see his antennae.

She’s up for a walk

A stroll under the stars, in the rain

If the pavement were dry, slime trails would be left behind by this hermaphroditic gastropodic glory

I take a minute to watch her make his way toward the grass

A noble goal

I’m here, the noble, the Nobelist

Making his way

Unhurried

No pace

And, as I hop onto my bike

I give her a jaunty wave, a doff of my cap

And I wish this escargot well on their transition

---

I’m a bit harried this morning.

Helmet on, check. Laptop inside bag, check. Door unlocked, check.

I know that S will shut things down so once I step outside I can just get going.

I close the door, straddle the motorbike, and ease it backwards through the narrow patio. It’s a bit wet on the handlebars but the storm that passed through has eased.

Now it’s just gray, and mist.

I gain traction with the gate and slide it toward our bicycles, propped on the homemade bamboo rack.

My favorite home project so far.

The large metal gate clanks against the handlebars of my mama-chari and I release the handle.

I’ve opened it far enough to turn the front wheel and sneak out into the street.

Fresh leaves have fallen from the neighbors’ tree and they dot the lane. A collection of reds, yellows, burnt oranges, and green.

They seem benign, mundane.

I notice a somewhat unique leaf, bristled, matted flecks of white and brown merged with bright red accents. Long and stringy at the end. When the wind picks up, this leaf is still.

Stagnant.

Planted.

It’s only when I pause to get a closer look do I see

The lidless eye

Standing out from a mutilated face

Dried blood caking the cheek and tiny mangled ear.

I catch my breath once I realise that this leaf is no longer a leaf.

And, for that matter, no longer a rat.

And something tells me the cats in the hood were busy last night.

---

I’ll see you at home

Wait

Let’s ride together

You go too slow

I don’t, though.

I think to myself

He responds

Your bike is way faster than mine, but I still drive faster than you do.

I mean

You need to drive carefully, you know that, right?

He shrugs it off. A teenage moment, where I’m not convinced he’s heard me

But here he is, before my eyes, growing forward

slowly but surely

away,

as it should be.

He likes his space

yet dances with me

coming into my orbit when I don’t expect it,

drawing away when I do.

Slowly but surely

coming into his own.

---

I’m not always steady of hand on the motorbike, especially on a cold day.

We weave through traffic together.

I follow, he waits. I slide past,

he sneaks up.

Our traffic dance matches the flow of these Hanoi streets. He shoots a gap here and there

I follow when I can.

We go slow.

There’s no rush right now. And his slower pace seems to say

I’m here, Papa

Even when he sneaks ahead

He never gets so far that he’s out of sight

I’m here, Papa

Catch me

---

It’s the first thing he ever said to me

I am back in a small, warmly-lit, cozy birthing room on Capitol Hill

his Mama performing otherworldly acts

And

his very first move outside of the womb

is to be caught.

Catch me

He says

The first thing he says to me

And the first thing he does

Catch me, papa

And I do

Into these simple

Outstretched

Steady

arms

He arrives.

All slimy jumble

Penis, poop, and all.

And I can say, without doubt, that it is the

greatest

moment

of my life.

The abrupt curve is punctuated by an impatient taxi driver’s staccato beep

And I am back here, in this moment

His hairy, grown man-calves and intermittently functional signal lights slip on ahead

Catch me

Papa

And in this moment

After all this time

We are both more confident than ever

That I will.

---

I step outside to see how many leaves are on the patio.

It’s not too bad, actually

This time of year many of the trees around take a nap. They slumber and twitch and lose their leaves. It’s a signal that soon,

heat is coming.

I pull my hands up around the laminated pillar as I peer down at the temple below. Stretch my arms behind me, opening my back and shoulders

Ooof

That feels good

I hold and try to breathe deeply,

And while I’m doing so peer down towards my toes and am confronted with

cherry toes.

Nah, blood orange toes.

Both feet.

At first I’m flummoxed, trying to figure out what’s going on.

Am I bleeding?

Is this gout?

Did I step in something?

---

I love my red shoes.

I love my red shoes.

I love my red shoes.

Oh, no! I must have stepped in a pile of…

I really do love them. Sleek, comfortable, they swallow up my feet, light and airy.

But they’re very, very red.

And, apparently, when I get them wet, the red makes its way

Through my socks

Into my nails

And deep, deep into my skin.

And, rather than worry, I embrace the novelty.

I love my red toes.

I love my red toes.

I love my red, red, red, toes.

---

I have quads

I could have had quads too if I played it differently!

We’ve just sat down to dinner and the cards are on the table for a quick game of Pepito. Dealt like Bridge or Hearts, you arrange your 13 cards into 3 hands in ascending order. 3,5,5.

It’s the perfect, fun distraction from hunger as we await our meal.

The evening is misty but warm, and we’re perched on the patio at one of our favorite Vietnamese ‘bun’ (pronounced boon) restaurants. There’s a bowl on the way, rich with sweet fish sauce, grilled pork, greens, complimented by the absolute best freshly-blended fruit and veggie juices. It’s our go-to when we need something light and healthy.

I’ve got a beet-carrot mix with ice on the way. And I’m Thursday.

Hi Thursday, I’m Dad.

There’s a gentle, easy energy to the four of us. We’re happy to share this time after an extremely challenging week at school.

Mosquito spray arrives at the table and we take measures.

While we measure out our hands.

I have a mini straight flush

Seven eight nine

Hey!

We immediately all land on the same joke.

Why was six afraid of seven?

Because seven eight nine!

We almost say in unison. There’s a moment of chuckling interspersed with groans.

They’re growing up, now well old enough to grasp the comedic genius juxtaposed with the corny. And R offers his rebuttal.

Why was six afraid of Papa?

Because he keeps making the same bad joke.

---

Sometimes

I get lost.

I tell my students all the time that I’m a reader

And it’s true.

I’m not making up tales out of school.

But I’m not always quite the type of reader I ask my kids to be.

And they always sniff out disingenuity.

They are relentless.

The truth is, I read on my phone. Constantly.

Small snippets of info, byte-sized chunks, bits and bobs from the hive mind.

I follow threads, weave roads, circumnavigate the world

wide

web

It’s nonfiction, rarely the fiction chapter books I encourage these young humans to read every day.

It’s almost as though I’ve been programmed

Altered, somehow.

Today

is different, though.

Today, I’m caught up in Echo, a lovely tale woven through time, crowded in magic, entrancing with music. And I am swept.

And maybe it’s old fashioned, but there’s something that feels more wholesome, precious,

better for my brain

about digging into an actual book,

with actual pages.

While I read, I get distracted, still follow a thought, lost in my personal stuff

But the smell of the paper and the sound of the page turning always

Brings me back home.

Just do a little loop and turn around

I yell,

seemingly into the ether

I have no idea whether he’s heard me or not. And even if he has, it doesn’t seem to matter.

---

We calibrate to see if he’s a fit on Mama’s bicycle.

I’m not sure he’s quite there, but when he straddles the bar he’s able to stand with his feet fairly flat. It seems like that’s enough for now.

He loosens the seat, slides it all the way down, and it sits nestled into the tube.

I rotate the back wheel on his helmet, snugging it up.

You gonna be okay?

Yeah, papa

And he’s off.

It’s rush hour near the lake, and though we’re on the back stretch with layered brickwork and narrower lanes

it’s still jammed with commuters.

He’s not a speed merchant

yet.

He’s taking it easy, clearly getting the feel for the larger bike.

He’s getting so tall

And things are happening fast.

The journey of parenting is a constant exercise in risk management. Determining whether now is the time to feel panicked, relax the boundary, tighten the grip ever so slightly, or a combination of all those things.

In general, it’s the latter.

As parents, we need to be all things, all at once, everywhere.

Mentor, cheerleader, consul, sage, observer.

Get out of the way-er.

And today, that’s what I’ve needed to do.

I’ll be okay, Papa

I’ve got this

He says, without saying.

It takes a leap of faith to watch your child ride away amongst a sea of traffic, motorbikes and taxis, all huddled and massed.

Off, into the distance,

out of sight.

But never, ever

out of mind

Being on foot, I walk jog stroll to keep as close a watch as possible

But at some point, I am confronted with the truth, of him disappearing around the bend.

The truth, of watching your child bike out of sight.

The truth, of watching your child grow into the world

To take risks,

to find his way.

And, I remember those days, too well.

Those days when I felt safe enough to take a step, to move forward on my own, tell understand that I, finally,

was in charge.

---

The storm comes on without warning. It is sudden and immediate.

FLASH

Sky

lit, stunning.

I am jolted alert, waking from my sleep walk.

It’s the follow-up that shakes me to the core.

BOOM

Merciless

We go about our business, minding our own, when, of all things – a text message – and a link

to the obituary

Ah, shit

I wish I had seen him one more time

A flash pierces the sky

and lights up his face.

It all feels so far away

But thunder is close to home.

He made people feel seen and heard and he was genuinely interested in them

Yeah he did

---

We grow older

And storms that arrive these early summer days come sudden and swift.

And yet somehow simultaneously provide notice, meander closer, give moments to prep and shelter, scurry home.

How can both those things be true?

Intense summer heat, cresting 40 degrees, begs for a respite.

And respite arrives, with mercy. Clouds gather, cover the sun, and the room gets shady. Notice given, gentle ramping up

It’s said that thunder rolls

But not in Hanoi

Here, it rips, rends, interrupts.

Kind of like aging.

---

We grow older

Move through the world, pursuing, adapting, reaching, and hurting. And, if we’re lucky, evolving to being better.

But weariness and ennui,

merciless,

knocks at our door and we find ourselves suddenly, so suddenly

sleepwalking.

---

Until, we see a flash

G has been going through some serious chemo for lymphoma, awaiting a bone marrow transplant…his partner has been amazing and he’s in decent spirits

BOOM

I’m awake

Back, twenty-plus years, on a rooftop on Capitol Hill, Space Needle and Olympic Mountains in view

and the best, best people

So much laughter

and G is at the heart of it all.

A six-unit apartment building

Just big enough to provide space, still small enough to collide. Reclusive and shy Rat Dog Man hiding on the level, between us all.

We bond over our neighbor, one building over, his habit of cooking in full view wearing only a silk robe open to the world. We giggle over a worry about frying oil splatters, and the most private of parts.

It was early days in for us, but from G, zero Seattle Freeze. He welcomed us, connected with us through food, generosity, gentleness. A blackout was the first moment, sharing our connection over candles and neighborly bottles of wine. He welcomed us in, because of course he did.

What stood out, in addition to his warmth, was his wit. He would make a so sly, so smart comment, and punctuate it with a genuine and well-earned laugh. The guy was ducking funny, and he knew it. Just never in an unkind way.

Always punching up, as good humor does.

I can hear his laugh today

even after so much time away.

Spend time with people who give you joy

First neighbor, then a friend. Generous and compassionate to a fault.

The kind of human we should all aspire to be

---

We get older

So it is said.

Against all odds, we did.

Life snuck up. A move off the hill, our new house, his new restaurant, kids of his own, kids of ours too.

Our meetups became fewer, and farther.

Suddenly, it’s mid-afternoon, and the day has gotten away.

Years have piled up.

We leap: to Ghana, then Vietnam.

Still stop off in Seattle, of course.

And on our brief returns, his restaurant is always there, waiting for us. Still the place we connect with him.

A quick hug and hello. Brief catchup, and off again.

He, the same. Love, and goodness, and warmth.

To his core.

And still, fun and funny as hell. All grown up and then some.

---

We grow older.

Life moves faster.

And we take it all, including people like him, for granted.

---

the flash spans the night sky

blinds, temporarily

pulls me out of my trance

I re-read his obituary

Ah. Shit

---

We grow older.

Until suddenly, sometimes without warning,

we don’t.

---

So.

If you’re young, this may not mean much to you.

If you’re old, maybe it’s a bit too late.

But don’t let life be wasted on you.

Make the ones around you feel better about who they are

The way G did for us.

---

The storm has come and gone

But now

I’m awake.

---

We find hope

and faith

and a desperate thirst for freedom

sometimes, when we’re least expecting it.

I round the narrow way and find myself behind another slow moving bike. Pass the temple gate shrouded by the massive tree which sees over it all.

Veer left

and left again.

I’m sleepy.

My slow moving friend seems like she’s window shopping, ambling by to parse arrays of fresh vegetables, golden fruits, and neatly stacked goods. She pauses to bark at a shopkeeper, and I sneak past.

This delightful, varied lane is familiar to me, to the point it borders on mundane.

It is only when I step back to truly see what is here, I remember why it is one of my favorite streets in Hanoi.

Color

Vibrance

Family

Home

Life.

There’s a range of tiny shops, mostly food oriented – mongers, grocers, butchers, their raw meats warming under battery-powered fly-shoo spinners and chopping blocks sitting outside the facade, awaiting what surely must be regular daily customers.

I’ve made this cruise a hundred times

and so, find myself distracted. Thoughts of work, of students of concern, of soon to be to-dos and get dones.

I lose track of myself

Until

I round another corner on this meandering path, and something unexpected jumps out at me.

No, like, literally jumps out at me.

It’s flying through the air

Look! Up in the sky!

The sunlight glances off its shiny skin

No, not skin.

Scales.

Is that a bird?

A plane?

Superman?

I honestly have no idea.

It’s upon further inspection, when I really start to pay attention, that I realize it is in fact, a large silver

fishy.

He lands on the pavement, and flops, and flips, and flips

and flops

in front of me.

And as I swerve to avoid him and stare down, he seems to stare back – all wiggle and fury signifying nothing.

I realize that he made his way onto the road with a leap of faith, a dash for freedom, fueled by an instinct toward survival.

I’m outta here, boys.

He’s left behind his friends in the small, round swimming pool which must have become his temporary home on the way to the dinner table.

See ya later, suckers!

(*See, suckers are a kind of fish, so)

And I must say, of all the things I wasn’t expecting to see today,

This was most definitely one of them.