I clutch my phone tightly and press the little glowing call button next to “Mom.” With every ring, I imagine invisible electronic waves pulsing through the air, trying to connect. 

You answer, propping your phone against the basket full of mint and basil you’re preparing for phở that night. 

“Mom is cooking, but I’m listening. What do you want to talk?” 

Your hands work quickly, snapping leaves off of their stems. 
Hands that hold memories, and the strength to shape one’s destiny. 

I open my mouth, but the words catch in my throat 
and begin to overflow at the corners of my eyes. 

8 dead 
Mass shooting 
“Eliminating temptation” 

Stupid, I think. What good is being a writer if I can’t articulate anything when it’s actually important. 

Maybe because growing up, your love language was 
a home cooked dinner waiting for me every night after swim practice. 
Sweetness in the form of freshly cut fruit as I did my homework at the dining table. But no matter how much I ate, I never felt full. 
Waiting for words that would never come. 

But I understand now. 
It’s because you know how fleeting words can be. 
After all, how much of this promised land was ever truly given to you? 

“Did you see the news?” I ask. 

Snap. Snap. 
“Yes.” 

I think of everything that I never told you. 
Like my classmates who tugged at their eyes, 
showing the narrow lens 
through which they viewed me. 

The prowling men who stalked me. 
Reminders that what I didn’t offer freely, 
they could always take. 
Hurling their words like stones, 
punishing us 
for their sins. 
Chink. 
Ling Ling. 
Love you long time. 

I wonder how much you’ve never told me. 

What we both know and have known, 
but never talked about. 

You look at me. I am there too. 

The herbs are finished. It’s time for the next step. 

“Just be careful,” you say, knife in hand.