I want to leave you with this thought – that every interest, every childhood pursuit, every old inkling of a dream, can mean something; that the little pieces of our past can always find their place in the puzzle of our present life.
There was a single round lantern directly above my head, floating over two banana trees. On a night when I’d felt entirely disconnected from the city, I was suddenly right where I needed to be. I was beneath the lantern’s glow.
Thank you for these five days to explore Saigon – a city about which I knew almost nothing before arriving.Thank you that it’s possible to travel so far from home and yet find a home here. Thank you – or as you taught me to say, cảm ơn.
One thing I can’t ever seem to stop doing is learning. Travel is pretty cool that way – it keeps you on your toes, teaches you lessons big and small, and ensures you never get too comfortable in what you think you know.
It’s as we’re all circling up in the ICU waiting room that my answer comes: Even when I’m not a traveler, I am still a daughter, a sister, a niece, a cousin, and – this one being especially true today – a granddaughter.
I take their sketch with me when I leave – as a token of gratitude that something as simple as a sketch could open the door to our encounter. Here in Southeast Asia, as on every journey, it is the people who have made each place.
Meeting Ksyucha, a fellow sketch artist, in the Saigon Central Post Office reminds me that it is such sketching serendipities I have come to live for – no matter how long the actual sketch itself may take to complete.
What else can you do at a place where a million people died? What else can you do but leave something, anything, behind that says we were here, and that we remember?