movements, shakers, salt, pepper.

My very own existence is rooted in many movements.

Maybe that's why I feel restless at times.

Tracing back to my Grandfather and Grandmother's link to mainland China, to my Mama and Daddy's refugee movements, to my own movement back to Vietnam these last months from America. I am at the brink of my own realization that I may be the final link to both of these movements, before they are forgotten amongst fleeting memories of black and white photos and echo in the faded distance of tongues -- essentially lost in translation and time.

"Your grandma really loved me you know that."

"I got the diamond implanted in my teeth so they wouldn't find it"

"These (empty lotus seeds) I used to pop them on my head for fun...see"

"People died"

"I fell off that bridge since my friend pushed me over. I freaked out for a bit"

"One time I rode my bike down that bridge, and then I pressed on the breaks really hard and my friend in the back when flying into the pavement. He lost some teeth"

"You kids in America have it so easy. I used to have to go to school very early then walk home at 10 am to 1 pm, the go back to school until 5 pm!"

"He tried to kill himself you didn't know that?"

Sometimes their stories don't really make sense to me. It sort of like when your turning the nob on a radio dial very fast. You can hear songs, but can't possibly comprehend what the song is, until maybe you slow down, and try to make the station clear.  Try to make it clear. Try, to make it clear. Try.