2019-43
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When my mother spoke to me, she spoke softly, the tones of Vietnamese giving it music - not high and reedy, but scratchy and bluesy. I always wished I had her voice.
Every casualty of war is someone's grandmother, grandfather, mother, father, brother, sister, child, lover.
....I can look with fresh eyes at my son.
He is a mystery - crystalline, breathing and growing.
