August 13th, 2026. Midnight. 2hrs straight.

My grandma on my dad’s side is in the hospital, and I’ve agreed to go visit her this Saturday with mom and dad. A quick “yes.” Bit unusual of me. Nowadays anything family related goes through the doors of caution and careful consideration. Only a hospital could get us this invitation, no other milestone would be bigger than the elephant in the room.

I haven’t seen my grandma in 6 years. Since I’ve known her, she’s looked the same and has always had health issues. My grandmother does not speak a lick of English. I, unfortunately and hoping to change this, am the type to only understand(ish) the Vietnamese that my parents speak. Me + Viet elders = “chao,” grateful grins, and too much nodding. I never pushed to get to know her, but grandmas are all the same for the most part.

A few of her contributions to the average granny stereotype:

• She’s very religious
• Loves getting her hair done and nails painted
• Smells like grandma
• Constantly offers food
• Does not play about her tv time

Mine’s cool cause she’s slow moving and never quits that precious revert-back-to-baby-smiling. I know some grandmas can be cynical. The side that I get is a ball of sunshine.

She popped out 7 children who all had multiple children, aside from my dad who just has me. I never stayed long enough to know any of them. I’m inserted then deleted from the picture every couple of years. It started on track. He was serious about growing his family and business, so from birth I was allowed infant socialization and first memories with the aunts and uncles. I am the 3rd eldest cousin, so before most of dad’s siblings started a family of their own, I was the practice baby. The group puppy. Raised a little by all of them while my parents worked. Resentment has potential here.

I think I could’ve become good friends with my cousins if the first gap didn’t happen. There are videos of us playing hide n seek in grandma’s house, getting our heads stuck in the stair rails. Electric scooters, throwing rocks at each other and getting in trouble for that because Bradley threw one at Teresa’s head which made her ear bleed. She needed stitches so his mom made him stay in time out until breakfast next morning. Being kids! Playing war, hiding under dinner tables, being too loud and pissing off the adults. It’s not my fault I disappeared but still, I am sorry. I would’ve loved growing up with you guys.

We were all almost teens when I saw them again. I never know what’s going on. They knew me, I knew them. We’d pretend like we didn’t know each other’s name’s because that’s what you do in awkward situations. You fill the silence with something even if it goes against facts. I sat in that chair in my grandma’s house, the one in the kitchen next to the tree that grew red chilies. The two girl cousins I watched grow up come towards me together.

“I remember you, your name is Nhi right?”

“Yeah! And you’re Kaitlyn and Lily.”

This round I kept to myself. I was a growing teen, not much I could’ve done about my isolative nature. Dumb. We were invited back. Routine gatherings and casual dinner spreads, gambling, vacations to Disney World and Universal Studios, holidays, a wedding. I sat with the adults because my mom was there. Anchor and home base. Stick by her side, nothing bad will happen. You gotta go to the bathroom? No, you cannot. She gets up and so I’m sitting outside the bathroom door because I want to. I’m 12 years old but for my own convenience, I too am stressed about money, chain smoke cigarettes, gamble and support my family of 4 with a government job. I get away with it because I am alone. I get to gamble and drink and chat about life at the dinner table I used to pretend was a dungeon. While, in perfect eyesight, the cousins sit in the living room eating pizza, playing Minecraft and Roblox. I was a transfer student. I avoided the potential rejection and the meddling eyes trying to force a connection that I could not conjure. So, join the adults I did. Getting to know them, them getting to know me. “Be Bap” they’d still call me, baby corn since I was born on Thanksgiving. I’ll hear it again on Saturday. That name keeps, as I evolve. I remember a wedding happened and it ended in tears. Things get foggy around this time. I think another couple year break.

Can I just say real quick, and this won’t make sense, but I must include it. You look like him, I’ve always thought that, makes me confused, I don’t think too hard about it, too weird of a thought.

My dad I saw briefly the other week, staying at my moms again. He gives me this look. And right now, because I’m in pain, the memory hurts a bit differently. When it’s happening, it’s happening so fast. Faster than processing speed. If I blink, I’ll get transported back in time to the day of the intervention which y’know, I forgot all about until now. Memories really do get repressed for your benefit. I had my phone in my hands with the note’s app opened. A room full of adult family members and me at 17, and dad and my letter I wrote the night prior. I wish I had that letter; it meant a lot to me at the time. It’s starting to mean something to me again, differently. And then I blink again. And I see his eyes looking at me. Lit up in a way that says “I’m trying to make up for all the years I never got to get to know you. So here I am. I’m proud of you. I’m proud of you. I’m proud of you. You don’t have to do a thing anymore. I am proud of you.” He looks at me like this every time I see him because I don’t see him often. I imagine time probably works different for him. I don’t have anything to back this up because I don’t exactly know the science and I don’t talk to him anymore, but I think his perception of time is both sped up and slowed down dramatically. Every moment painfully long because he hates what he’s thinking and lives in fear, but blinks and then it’s next month, and then a year has passed and he’s missed Christmas, forgets my birthday, my age even, probably where his phone and wallet are. I may very well be 21 still, in his mind. Then on a random early August weekday I go to pick up home cooked food my mom’s made and there he is. Dark clothes worn to shreds. He’s got maybe 8 teeth left, full grey beard, skinny as a stray dog, ash and chip dust all over his fingers and sprawled on my mother’s all white furniture that she routinely inspects. We blink. I think when he sees me, time stops and becomes unimaginably heavy. I can tell he’s in a bit of a survival mode state, trying hard not to do anything to make me disappear. Using his eyes to will me into the same realm of halted time he’s experiencing. I understand now that I share this feeling with him sometimes. And so does my mother. Mama once told me she gets sad when the neighbors put up for sale signs. She doesn’t have a kid anymore so she doesn’t talk to the neighborhood moms like before but yet she feels abandoned by the strangers in her environment. Somehow, I suffer the same isolating silent pain they both have. I have a problem with letting go so I use the desperation in my eyes to hold onto things I care about. We will our belongings into the world within us, our stagnant plane of existence. Hoarders. 3 people with the same unconditional love for one another struggling to hold down the sails in still water. There are familiar faces quite literally everywhere and not one person or place feels like home anymore. Lost and homeless and loved and abandoned, holding onto what we had; the memories of what safety felt like.

You both will read this. Happy 52nd birthday mama! Some things may come to an end, but I’ll love the both of you past your time. Find safety in yourselves, let go, and maybe one day our ships will cross again.