This morning at 10:30AM, when Anh Quốc stepped up to push the red button on the incinerator for the cremation of Cậu Năm's body, the finality of death hit my Mom really hard. She wept sorrowfully; her body shook violently as she fought to control and regain her composure.

 

It was as though she could not breathe. It was as though her heart is about to stop. It was as though she can feel the flames that were consuming the body of Cậu Năm. Her face contorted by pain and her tears poured out in waves. She repeatedly murmured, "Lạy Chúa tôi, lạy Chúa tôi"  Oh My God, oh My God. She seemed fragile, vulnerable and helpless. I put my arms around my Mom to prevent her from falling and was later wondered if it was her that I tried to support or was it me that needed someone to hold onto seeing my Mom in such condition.

Throughout the hospitalization and the passing of Cậu Năm, I have seen more tears out of my Mom than I have witnessed throughout the past 48 years of my life. Mom has always been the pillar of strength to us. She was the superglue that bonded us all together, since we were children in a war-torn country far away. While my Dad was out fighting for his country, Mom worked hard to build a future for all eight of us kids. She dealt with the teenage years of Anh Hưng, Chị Vy and Anh Hùng. She babied Huyền and Tí. And all the while she was building a successful business in Vietnam. While her success was short-lived due to the fall of Saigon in 1975, the births and upbringing of Huy-Hoàng and Hà brought much joy to her days in Vietnam. With all its ups and downs, my Mom has had a good life there in the old country.

One day in March of 1975, Mom called Cha Đào (Monsignor Đào) and asked him to release me from An Phong Học Viện, a Redemptionist Seminary in Thủ Đức, just outside of Saigon. The old priest, a relative, who ran the seminary, called me to his office and let me go without any explanation. "Con về đi, Má cần con ở nhà."  Go home. Your mother needs you home. He said. Confused and perplexed, I left my seminarian friends behind and took the bus home. I asked the bus driver to drop me off at Thị Nghè, near Sở Thú (Vietnam National Zoo) and started wandering the streets of Saigon making my way back to our home near Chợ-Lớn. The War was nearing its end then, and people were busying putting up barricades and boarding up their homes and businesses. Yet Saigon was so beautiful. I remembered the tree-lined streets leading to majestic buildings and parks. I walked past movie theaters and rạp-hát cải-lương opera houses with their colorful signage and filled with people looking similar to me. I also remembered the traffic and the noise. Little did I know that it was my last goodbye to the town I loved.

When I arrived home, my beautiful mother told me that she had not heard from my father for more than a month, ever since the Communists overran the northern province where my Dad was stationed; and that we would need to start planning a funeral for Dad. Although heart-broken and devastated, Mom was cool and calm. Her voice crackled with pain, but her composure was dignified. She looked far away, as if to call on my Dad. Tears silently trickled down her face, but her commands were courtly delivered. She cried softly, as would any young widow, but her strength was obvious. I adored her then and I adored her now.

I saw a different kind of crying this morning. Thirty four years have aged my mother into a different kind of person in a strange land surrounding by strange customs and language. A once upcoming successful entrepreneur was now reduced to an old woman lost and confused on how to behave in such situation in this new culture.

 

The loss of familiarity and comfort of old customs compounded by the loss of her beloved brother were too much for her. She saw her world collapsing all around her. Her expectations and assumptions were no longer valid. She looked around and only saw a handful of her kinfolks at this ceremony of finality. She felt the loneliness of a brother that was barely older than she. She sensed the heat of a mechanical machine called the incinerator, and knew that there will be no grave of Cậu Năm to visit. And she cried.

Perhaps she cried for Cậu Năm and perhaps she was crying for herself. Those tears could have been for her old days in Vietnam, for growing up in the land of familiarity full of friends and relatives, for her father's native language and customs, and perhaps for a glorious past. Only my Mom could know for certain, but somehow I felt in her the self-pity of a lonesome woman.

As the temperature readings of the incinerator started to climb to 1,800 degrees, my Mom sat dumbfounded staring blankly onto the vacant space in front of her. Tears still streamed down her face. She must have aged ten years within the last ten days. Her eyes sank deeply into her colorless face and the glasses on her face could hardly hide the bags under those eyes. Her hair was unkempt and grayed. Her hands were cold and unsteady. She was among families, yet so alone. I stood by her and looked at my Mom. My heart cried with her.

Finally Mom stood up with great efforts and thanked each visitor as they came up to her and offered condolences. Her poise regained and her refined manner came back. Then Anh Quốc did the perfect thing. He gave her the framed picture of Cậu Năm. Mom took it and embraced it, and for a brief moment, I saw the tremendous comfort in her eyes. She still has her beloved brother.

Good-bye, Cậu Năm. See you at my Mom's home.

Vui

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