Linh Flores
My grandmother’s hands
Her knuckles urge the bowl of fish sauce, the plate of mint, basil, bean
sprouts to me. Uttering Vietnamese words I wish to understand, a life’s
history I long to decipher. But I’ll scoop these offerings, mix them with
the grilled pork, red lettuce, rice noodles. A history as complex as the
textures, tastes, fragrances that her patient hands assemble. The
same dexterous fingers toss me food from chopsticks, relaxed and
uncaring, as if they hadn’t had to pass her refugee children to fishing
boats and unknown futures in a foreign country. A decade later, her soft
grip cradles me, her first granddaughter in America, devotes years
cultivating me with food from the homeland. Here in musky garages,
hours of stirring phở gà soup in colossal pots or deep frying egg rolls in
Asian squats. I savor this gift, my link to our culture. This fresh crunch,
this salt, this bitter. At meal’s end, she slices persimmon, extends a palm
of orange flesh, an acquired taste for many but still sweet enough for me.
Decade daughters
when my daughter turns ten her limbs drape
over the edge of the mattress her half-lidded
gaze foggy with thoughts of suicide and I
can’t help but think of my grandmother
surrendering her decade-old daughter how the
storm waves snatched her swallowed her off
the wrong side of the overcrowded boat my aunt
that never bloomed past childhood her siblings
say she was the pretty one a favorite they frown
and strain to search blurry memories uncovering
nothing else but long-buried grief not to be
disturbed they won’t pry open their sister’s coffin
dare not speak of her to my grandmother who
carries the guilt of impossible choices under silent
moonlight she traded gold bars for treacherous
treks on fishing boats dreaming of prosperous lives
in lands unplagued by war how did she say goodbye
to pairs of her refugee children before delivering
them from Vietnamese shores to fates unknown how
does a mother’s heart withstand the endless torment
perhaps my grandmother clutches that burden from
polished pews in her countless prayers to a Catholic God
I anchor my daughter in a tight embrace the day
she turns eleven “I’m so glad I made it this far”
she sobs like she knows that not all daughters do
“After my oldest daughter turned ten, I sank into grief. At night, I cried for her as she struggled with suicidal thoughts, and I cried for Bà (my Vietnamese grandmother) who lost her daughter at the same age. It took many months until this could be expressed in Decade Daughters. The weight isn’t gone, but it’s lighter. As a mother in my thirties, my curiosity about my grandmother has amplified, despite our language barrier. Bà’s stories sound different to me now. They land in my body like an ancestor, blessing me with the insight of past pain, the wisdom of grit, and the light of triumph. It’s an honor to feel this connection.” —Linh Flores
Linh Flores is an artist, ex-NASA engineer, mother to three daughters, wife to an Iraq War combat veteran, and descendant of refugees. She strives to illuminate the personal impacts of war and the challenges of caregiving. Writing is part of her healing process, to relieve heaviness of the heart and renew its tranquility. She believes in shining light on what is dark and allowing pain to be expressed, honored, and understood with gentle compassion. This allows her to transmute suffering into beauty, power, and meaning. She has published in The War Horse, Collateral, and Altadena Poetry Review. Besides painting with words, she delights in painting on paper, canvas, and on the street. She lives in Hilo, Hawai‘i and you can find her artwork on instagram @linhfloresart.
