Beauty Rising by Mark W Sasse

that George and Uncle Ho of Vietnam had a few things in common – the great symbol of freedom for their people. George stood beside the other great symbol of our region – a statue of Franco Harris making the immaculate reception. I’m sure Tan would have had no equivalent for Franco.
    I descended to the baggage claim area and found my conveyor number on the display board. Belt 1. As I approached the belt, I looked and then looked again. I thought my jet lag played tricks on my eyes. Standing in front of me, arms calmly at her side, slight smile on her face stood my mother.
    “Hello Martin. Welcome back.”
    She spoke with a warm, unfamiliar glow. Her face seemed calm without a hint of anger or frustration.
    “Mom?”
    “Welcome home,” she said and came over to give me hug.
    My tongue locked. My heart nearly stopped. My stomach ached and twirled.
    “Mom?”
    I could say nothing else.
    “I’m glad you’re home. Let’s just put all this stuff behind us and live our normal lives. Okay?”
    “Okay.”
    Emotion welled up in me. Tears slipped slowly down my cheeks. She met me at the airport. She didn’t yell at me, and above all she hugged me. I hadn’t felt a loving touch from a parent in such a long time. I had trouble putting my emotions into perspective the whole ride home. We said very little to each other except for a few exchanges about how the airplane rides were. She asked me nothing at all about Vietnam or dad’s ashes, and I certainly didn’t feel that I could bring any of it up. Perhaps it all didn’t matter anymore. Perhaps just these few days apart put everything into perspective for her. Maybe it wouldn’t be like it used to be. Perhaps we could finally put the abusive past behind us and slowly pretend to be family. It’s strange that during the entire two days travel home I could think of nothing but Vietnam, my new friends, the girl who stole my wallet, the lovers cuddling by Turtle Lake, and the ashes under the wrong banana tree. But now, Vietnam suddenly seemed less important – a mere distraction from everything that was really important in my life. Could it be that my excursion abroad would bring us together? I started missing my room at home; even the thought of showing up to work at K-Mart didn’t seem too bad. It will be fun to bowl with my buddies on Tuesday I thought. I looked out the window as the sun rose, a red ball. Its piercing light blinded me, and I eagerly awaited what this new day would bring.

Three Years

    I slept for fourteen hours. I awoke around 10 PM and started unpacking my suitcase. There wasn’t much to unpack since I didn’t buy any souvenirs. As I threw my clothes into a pile on the floor that would eventually end up in the laundry basket, I remembered something about my blue striped button down shirt. It was the shirt I wore when Tan took me sightseeing around Hanoi. I reached into the front pocket and felt it immediately – the Phuong tree flower petal. It was still brilliant red in the shape of fan with a serrated edge. I laughed when I thought of how Tan told me it represented the girl that got away because I didn’t have money. It made me think about dad. I traded my dad’s ashes for a red flower petal. I touched it gently and smelled the faint sweet scent emanating from it. I went into the dark living room. Mom must have already gone to bed, I thought as I turned on the stand lamp and walked to our book shelf built into the wall and encased with wooden framed glass doors. I opened the shelf doors and looked for a book in which to place the petal. After glancing through the shelves, one particularly large hard cover picture book caught my eye – A Day in the Life of Vietnam. I had never seen it before. I removed it from the shelf, went into my bedroom, and spent the next hour pouring over each photograph until I saw her on page 89. It was that same Vietnamese girl with the simple smile, the small statured frame, who looked taller due to her thin