The empty plot

When I first saw it, I was shocked!

It had my sister’s name on it.

Yet, she is still here, alive and well.

Her name was engraved, on the copper marker, next to her husband’s.

It makes New Orleans’ stack-up grave yard look like junior high.

This is serious. She planned ahead of time, for the inevitable.

After all, she is 84 this year.

Married to the only man she loved. Before or after four kids together.

You don’t often find that nowadays. Or perhaps I don’t know everyone among our almost 8 Billion folks.

The reception hall where their wedding took place – Dong Khanh, Saigon – had a fire last week.

Nothing is permanent.

Out of that wedding hall came many happy couples, sharing lives and sharing the fate of our nation.

Torn, trembled upon and bombed to dust. The destruction even spilled over to neighboring Lao and Cambodia, Vietnam War’s Sideshow.

A lot has happened since my sister wedded to her huband, whom she picked over other suitors.

I was there. Witnessed and remembered everything.

God bless me with photographic memories. Of events near and far. Of people hurting and loving each other.

I wish I don’t remember.

But they – bad times – are there, ever present and co-existed in my brain.

Hello Darkness my old friend…

I wish I only remember the wedding hall, the music, the mingling and yes, the last on the menu: fried rice.

Makes me mouth-watered. Us kids could never hold that long. We stuffed ourselves with appetizers (since weddings in Vietnam often took place 2 hours AFTER what was printed on the invitation).

Events take place WHEN everybody gets there, not because it is time (as in Western society).

The band played on, the Cognac poured and peanuts kept early arrivals company.

If I had one happy memory, it would be that day, seeing the newly-wed couple radiate with happiness and joy.

Guests shared the same sentiment evident in their generous gifting (via the money inside those envelopes).

Earlier in the day, per tradition, the groom went and “stole” the bride away from the only home she had ever known.

I, 5 or 6 years old at the time, didn’t know better. I thought she was gone for good. Tears streaming down my cheeks, as I chased after the 10-mile-an-hour car (no coke cans dragging and “Just Married” sign).

The next day, the day after the wedding, they visited us and graced me with a surprise: “see I am not gone for good”.

Now I understand, after all these years, how two individuals can commit to each other beyond the grave despite all that lovers’ quarrel. I get it.

I had thought disagreement was meant to be shunned and avoided. Yet its absence is even scarier and colorless.

But they were made for each other. Forever. With graves next to each other, I would say, it makes for a convenient visit. More permanent than their recently burned down wedding hall.

It’s the cemetery that seems more tranquil amidst our transient life.

I must admit, I still am uncomfortable seeing my sister’s name along with my parents’ and her husband’s plots. She is so practical and well-prepared. A mark of a good accountant, and more so, a great wife.

My sister. The only one I have and know.

I sure hope that plot is empty for a long time to come. Good siblings are hard to find, and of course, a rare thing money can’t buy.