Empty Kitchens by Eric J. Duong
My car pulls into the driveway, sputtering and
Choking from bug carcasses
Gathered
From across the desert
You sit in the kitchen patiently
Quiet
I'm later than I said I’d be, so you reheat
The contents of the bowl that lays dormant on the table
"How's school going?"
You ask in Vietnamese, a native tongue passed down with care
Only to be received half-way
"Fine." I lie in English, as I drag my battered suitcase
In
Through the door
In one pot, toss in:
Lap xuong. It's either a type of pork or mystery sausage, depending on how funny
You feel that day
Green onion, chopped
All over sweet rice
Drizzled with a bit of soy sauce
I've never actually seen you piece it together. Just strong scents of sugared meat and spice wafting up
Letting me know
To come downstairs and pull up a chair
Your phone buzzes. It's Dad
Bà Nội has passed away
Surrounded by family, but with a grandson
Absent
I thought about getting a plane ticket in that final week, but something kept me from asking
Maybe it was the toy dog upstairs
She bought me
Years ago
On a rainy day in Chinatown
He keeps watch over a dusty pile of Dad's favorite comics
Cowboys who speak in French
And stay young forever
4 eggs, scrambled
1 loaf of French bread
At least 6 strips of bacon. Pour out the fat. Twice.
Fry to a crisp. Then pat down using a paper towel
For extra health benefits
"You have to be 10 times better"
For them to accept you
Was a favorite saying of yours.
I haven't checked the calculations
Because
You're still much better at math than me
The bread usually disappeared
Before you finished burning the bacon
Sitting at the table
In my oversized shirt (I never grew into it by the way)
I don't believe you
13 isn't an unlucky number
Just the wrong age to realize
That sometimes you were right
1 can of Chef Boyardee mini-bites (the ones shaped like little dinosaurs)
Empty contents onto a saucepan
Heat on low
Let cool for at least 5 minutes. The last step would be unnecessary if only
Your son had but a little bit more
Common sense
The color green stands out
When I think about the first house
I remembered enough of to forget
3 steps off of the bus and then
A wild sprint through 2 lawns of Kentucky bluegrass
Was a routine that you never missed
Watching
From our front porch
I forgot to send you a text your last birthday
And on the weekends, I'll admit
I only call
When it's something important
But I do know
That after I left home for the first time
You put 4 pictures of me
Up by the fireplace
And I'm eating in 3 of them.