The dreaded winter has made its way back to New York, and cast a depressing drizzle onto the pitch black marble wall of 1166 Avenue of the Americas. Esther walked by my cube everyday, peered out at the gray sky, and sadly declared that the next time we saw a sunny day would be next April - half a year from now!

To echo the weather, I was in a gray lousy mood. With the election closing in, Mary and I have actively talked for Barack: we have been making calls to swing states, hoping to sway voters. We convened on Monday in an empty conference room during lunch hour to call Pennsylvania. People on my calling list were, as a statement of fact, old. I talked to more than a dozen of 80 something crowd, who were exceptionally grumpy - due to the freezing rain or maybe because I had interrupted their afternoon nap? Usually I love older people and love how they remind me of a long future ahead, but the oldies in Penn state sucessfully lauched me a very very grumpy early-20's crisis. Ack.

To the least of my expectations, waking up early has put such a strain on me and Mugg. We have always been night-owls, staying up till 3am on a workday to blast guitar hero then crawling in to work at 10 (that's a particular thing I love about NERA). Our schedule, however, grew apart as I now woke up at 6am and went running, effectively waking Mugg up with my shuffling on his old squeaky wooden floor. He still went to bed at 3am, meaning that I would get no sleep from my new bedtime of midnight till 3 due to his loud baseball games and shuffling. As a result we were both haggard, cranky, and complaining that we didn't get enough attention from each other the next day.

Ack ack.

I'm glad that October is soon over, so soon I can cross off exciting activities that nonetheless have crowded out the more important things on my priority list. With winter blasting in, chances are I won't ever mutter enough motivation to run outside at the break of dawn, so that should solve our early rise vs. night owl problem.

As for Mugg, he promised to go running with me once a week at night, in exchange for a late late night of guitar hero and cuddling in the next morning. There are still much conflict of interest we have to work on, but I'm glad there's a compromise to be made.

I can't wait for November.

Another thing I love about the Wonderland Trail, how the road is long but definite. I only have to put one step at a time after the next, and after days and nights we will eventually reach the finish line (assuming maps are good and bears are full). The road of life, in the past 22 years, has been similar - long but definite: by high school I know I will go to college, by college I know I need internships and jobs. But now, supposedly well-equipped ex-post 22 times 365 times 24 times 3600 times infinite moments of wisdom, the road suddenly erupts into, in my mind, a convergence of land, water and sky. Or, in boring words, a convergence of possibilities. I could do pretty much anything now, unconstraint, free spirited (that was always the goal anyway, no?) Few thoughts that have entered my mind include (a) law school - that's a big yes yes but "a good time" for it is still ambiguous; (b) development studies program in Sweden - now that's enticing; (c) joining a dance troop and samba my way through rio - hmm nope, just a dream, I detest those carnival outfits.

By default of course I could stay at NERA, move up along the ladder and work the system. Funny enough, in the much warned cold corporate world, I've found warmth and love tugged in backup books, court briefs and the very impersonal, un-private white cubicles. And I'd like to think that my presence has made work a bit more tolerable for Mugg, Boss Charming, Esther, Craig, Jay, big Trang, as they have completely colored my world. So there is hope after all, of human interaction rising above silly quabble of stock frauds and messy hedge fund transactions. Like the dementor, I live for that, hunting restlessly for leftover hope in gloomy New York.

One sunny day in September, as we were visiting Berkeley, Mugg gasped at the revelation that I could not do a cartwheel. He promptly took off his shoes, dragged me to a stretch of green grass in front of Bloat Hall (the law school!) and tried desperately to flip my hips over my head. It turned out, I had no balance whatsoever, and could not sustain my body inversion for as little as a split second in the air. We had a grand time nonetheless, and I'd never felt more free spirited despite the fact that I was doing nothing more than hurting my butt.

So I guess the next step is exactly what it is, a tiny little inch, some time unrecognizable.

It was the most exhilarating feeling I've felt in a long time. The last mile of the 100-mile Wonderland Trail, as we had been warned, proved the longest. We were practically running, pressing our blistered feet and tired knees up and down hill, dusty and sweaty backpacks bouncing. It was September 12, 2008. We finally made it back to civilization after 10 days in the wild. It was, by far, the most physically arduous thing I've done in life. We hiked through snow, forest, mud, dessert, meadows; drank the freshest ice-cold water from rivers; slept under the stars; swam in lakes. Life was simple: we went to bed when sun set, wake up at sunrise. Biggest worry of the day included a nice spot to filter water, a flat ground to pitch tent, a bear pole to hang up our food. The first day proved the hardest for me physically, while mentally I was freaked out the last day - Mugg had a fever and almost didn't make it out. Thanks goodness he gathered enough will power to finish the trail. We hugged each other tight at the finish line. The trail has made us true companions.

The best spill-over effect of all, the hike has launched my body into a thirst of activities. Once getting used to hiking an average of 10 miles a day with a 45-lb load, my muscles screamed and itched in New York for something more rigorous than samba dancing classes. Before I knew it, I signed up for a half marathon and started running 4 times a week at 6am. At Mugg's dismay, I soon became a morning person and even sooner discovered my addiction to running. The half marathon is tomorrow in Staten Island, so I really should be going to sleep right about now.

I'm incredibly grateful for this twist of attitude, that I've somehow managed to become athletic which I always aspired but feared to be. I hope to complete the half marathon in 2 hours injury-free (much thanks of course to Yuko my running buddy).

2 more things to note:

1. My samba class is marching in the New York Halloween Parade, accompanied by the live band Samba Manhattan (www.manhattansamba.org). So come check us out on Halloween if you are in New York! The parade will start at 7pm-ish on Spring Street and 6th Avenue. We'll be having weekly rehearsal Thurs night out on the Westside Highway around 8pm - just follow the beat of drums and come join us on some hot samba steps!

2. I'm contemplating signing for a full marathon in Jan or Feb 2009 - leaving 3-4 months for training. Possibly the ING Miami Marathon in late Jan. My dream: to run a marathon on the Great Wall in China one day (http://www.great-wall-marathon.com/) - maybe this May?

I'd like to dedicate this first long run to the Alchemist and what it has taught me:

"If you want something bad enough, the universe conspires to help you";

"You must understand that love never keep a man from pursuing his destiny. If he does, it's because it wasn't true love."

The big trip is almost here... only one more week! I am so incredibly excited and nervous just the same. In the past month, Mugg and I's weekends have been jam-packed with nothing but hiking, breaking into boots, loading backpacks. Slowly we eventually collected most if not all gears needed for the Wonderland Trail. Today I bought my final, but probably most important, piece of equipment - the Gregory Maven 50L backpack. I have had 2 other lined up from coworkers, but this little backpack is so comfortable and beautifully made that I couldn't resist. An internal frame, the pack has a sleeping bag compartment, 3-entry into the main load, a solid and sturdy hip belt that fits snugly around my waist. I was lucky to find a perfect fit - it was the last x-small backpack left at Tent and Trails. My only concern is that it's not big enough, though the sales man insisted that I should only carry 25 pounds, a quarter of my body weight. "Just make your boyfriend carry more!" he said seriously. We loaded the bag with 25-30 lbs and I walked around the store, amazed at how well the weight sat on my hip bones. Mugg will be carry considerably more with his 70L backpack - I grimaced at how he surely would laugh once he saw my tiny internal frame. Once Mary bring me her sleeping bag, I definitely need to load the backpack and see if it can hold 2-week worth of living.

The bulky items will be the sleeping bag, the tent (5 lbs splitting between Mugg and I), insulating pads, 5-day worth of food to keep us going till the next cache. Amazingly 5-day worth of food translates into about 10 lbs per person, meaning we each will consume about 2 lbs of food per day! I never thought I eat that much. Water too will be heavy - we each will carry about 3L, or 6 lbs a day. Most likely we will filter enough water supply for the group in the morning, then might do it again at night if someone runs out. We will need to be scanty with water, especially Mugg who drinks a lot, since there might be a stretch when there's no lake or river near us.

Unlike Mugg who is a light sleeper and is bothered frequently by blisters, my biggest worry lies with the fact that a shower might not be feasible till the few final days of the trip, when we hit a more-equipped check point. The prospect of not being able to wash my hair for 10 plus days sends me squirmish - luckily tickets had been bought at that time the thought finally dawn on me so there wasn't a possibility to back out. Baby wipes and dry shampoo are considered, though both are inconvenient. We will have to pack all trash with us, so I'm hesitant to bring anything that's non-biodegradable. And dry shampoo... apparently there's no need for water, just shampoo and towel dry - the concept of which is skeptical to me. More research has to be done on this.

It all started 3 months ago, when Ian, a phD candidate in Oceanography at UCSD and Mugg's buddy from Berkeley, sent out a rally call for a backpacking trip of 100 miles on the Wonderland Trail that runs around Mount Rainier, a snow-covered active volcano southeast of Seattle. To my surprise, Mugg enthusiastically signed us up. "I never know you are so into backpacking," I had asked skeptically. "It's a one-of-a-lifetime opportunity," he answered solemnly. He was right - it definitely is not a light matter to plan a long backpacking trip on which we will have to live with bare survival. The Wonderland Trail is open only for a month or two a year, since the rest of the time it's covered in snow. We were lucky that Ian took care of most the logistics, like planning out the route, acquiring permits, sending ahead food cache. There will be six of us to split the food and common gears: Mugg and I, Ian and his triathlon girlfriend, 2 more guys from UCSD. Daily menu includes mostly dry food - lots of trail mix, energy bars, beef jerky etc, with the more fancy freeze-dry food packs spared for dinner. I am most excited for the warm milk tea in the morning (thank goodness we are bringing a stove!)

As inexperienced in backpacking as it gets, Mugg and I had to buy/borrow most of the start-up gears. In fact, I haven't shopped for anything but hiking stuffs in the last quarter. After this trip, I might have to make hiking a life-long habit to worth all the investments made (not a bad motivation at all, mind you lol).

The packing list, so far, stands as followed:

- Gregory backpacks - 70L for Mugg, 50L for me
- Sturdy Goretex hiking boots - Merrill for Mugg and Vasque Sundowner for me
- 20 degree sleeping bags - borrowed from Craig and Mary the wonderful nature-loving coworkers at NERA
- Thermarest 4-season self-inflated insulating pads - rented
- Kelty 2-person 3-season tent - amazing piece at 5 lbs
- Hiking shirts and shorts - 2 each per person
- Rain jacket and rain pants - 1 each per person
- Long thermal tops and bottoms - 2 and 1 each per person
- Thick wool socks - 3 pairs each
- Silk sock liners - 4 or 5 pairs each
- Fleece jacket and fleece pants - 1 each per person
- Lots of hand sanitizer
- Sun screen, bug repellent, iodine pills to purify water, personal aid kits, moleskin for blister, duct tape, small towel, journal, camera

All of this (plus food and water) will add up to 30 - 40 lbs loads each of us will lug along the, so I heard, breathtaking trails of Mount Rainier.

I can hardly wait.

The last few days before vacation are long. Way too long. As Mugg has been kept in the office everyday past midnight for the last two weeks, I was appointed Chief of Packing and Investigator of Missing Items. The progress was good - yesterday I felt particularly productive between listening to Michelle Obama and packing up my sweet little Maven. To my dismay, the backpack is indeed too small, and definitely won't fit the giant synthetic sleeping bag a coworker had kindly dropped off at my cube. I will need to go back to Tent and Trails to exchange for a bigger size or return it. Good thing I still have Alex's backpack as a backup. But man, how I'm gonna miss those hip belts. Michelle Obama, on the other hand, was fantastic.

Mugg is justly the Chief if Misplacing Items. As if affected by a spell, two things can never match up in his apartment: socks always get their partners confused, and gloves strive in vain to find their better half. Well, I had to admit I played an active role in the chaos. In the last few weeks, I was often distracted by superb jumps and twist of gymnastics and other Olympics events while folding laundry, thus giving my share in mixing up socks. Next thing on our Sherlock Holmes list is a right hand winter glove, a must item for the chilly nights of Mount Rainier.

Jay called few nights ago and asked if I want to volunteer for the Talk For Obama campaign. A coworker at NERA and law school candidate, Jay took 3 months off to campaign for Obama in North Dakota. As he was outgoing and an avid bar hopper, I was curious to see how Jay coped with the god-forsaken midwest town. Apparently the campaign has worked him breathless. While there isn't many bars around, Jay has been well-entertained with tall blond girls in this German-Swedish settlement region. lol Good for him. About Talk for Obama, I enthusiastically agreed. After vacation, Jay will pass along to me a list of potential voters in North Dakota to whom I need to call and persuade them to vote for Barack. In preparation, Yuko promptly lend me her "Dream from My Father" so I could marginally be familiar with the man. Exciting stuffs!

Three more days till the big trip!

Lately, as Mugg - in the most exaggerated and ungraceful manner - pointed out, I had a tendency to shuffle up my English vocabulary. In shock I discovered that things I thought my whole life are A turn out to be B. It all started one casual weekend when we decided to make salmon chili, a recipe passed down by his ultra-health-conscious friend from school. I volunteered to get grocery, among which were scallions. Mugg's face turned stone when I showed up with pinkish tiny onions, "These are shallots, you know that, right?" We raced to Wikipedia, and to Mugg's amusement I sunk into a state of temporary disbelief, as if my childhood had just been robbed by the discovery that Santa Claus were fictional. "It's okay" he consoled as I kept knocking my head an hour later, "You are not native." To which I pouted indignantly, "I used to win spelling bees during a class full of American kids!" Obviously a spelling bee trophy can hardly justify my messed up English skills, but since I am a girl and I just lost my bet over tiny onions, Mugg chuckled and offered to clean the dishes.

To my horror, I soon discovered in subsequent weeks that the matter of shallots vs. scallions wasn't the only leak in my memory pipe. Yams turn out to be not sweet potatoes; people travel on a subway, not in; "If I was" is as acceptable as "if I were"; and a flurry of nuances that I thought I had mastered.

I soon develop a habit to make Mariam Webster my best buddy. Like now, just 5 minutes ago, before putting down the title of this blog as "cramp" I cautiously performed a quick check to find out that cramp (v) as in a tension in muscles is very different than cram (v) as in studying really hard for an exam. That, by the way, is what I mean to write in this blog: I am cramming real hard for my CFA.

Honestly - reeeeal hard.

One morning, I woke up and looked outside the window: sun rays had generously poured over the head of the Statue of Liberty, and the winding tourist line in front of Battery Park was especially long. Light green buds had, from nowhere, crowded on otherwise bare branches. Spring was here.

A few years ago, during a cold bleak winter night in the Bates library, Saif and I mused over the many recent break-ups of out friends and commented on how hearts grew cold due to icy weather. But, when spring came, we optimisted, the hearts would soon become warm and toasty.

Spring 2008 - I snuggled at Mugg's warm and toasty heart as we strolled down Seventh Ave, happily away from the office earlier than usual on a Friday night. We had talked the night before about "life correlation", a statistic concept based on the correlation coefficient we looked at on daily basis at NERA. "My life is correlated to your mouth. When your mouth goes down my happiness goes down, when it goes up my happiness goes up," he said grimly, pulling the two corners of my mouth down and up into a frown and a smile.

I had laughed brightly at such silly thinking, but was deeply touched and amused. "So it was a good thing, then, that our life correlation coefficient is positive. And statistically significantly different than zero."

And I thus felt my own warm and toasty heart.

It all started with Oasis' Wonderwall, which Itunes menacingly or unconsciously put on repeat mode, and I too disconcerted to resist.

Or it could be an hour and a half of sweaty samba, followed by another hour and a half of roasting and suffocating in hot yoga.

Whatever it was, by the time I got home at 11pm, downed a full glass of orange juice and walked around my room for the nth time, the phone rang. "So, are you gonna tell me?" Mugg sounded suppress-ingly excited. "No, don't worry about it, it's not important" I resorted to passive offensive technique. "Come on!" he insisted on for five more minutes, but gave up with a giant arrgh as I refused to bulge. "Fine. Bye then."

By midnight, after one more dose of Wonderwall, I resolved to pick up the phone, "Let's meet." "Now??" Mugg was a little shocked - I learned later that a giant basketball game was on TV then. "Hello?" "Yeah yeah, now" - I must have knocked my head till silly during the 3o-second conversation.

We walked around Union Square in silence for half an hour, then talked till 4am in Starbucks.

It all started one cold, cold night :-)

Spring has lightly skirted around New York. The weather is still chilly, but couldn't prevent people to hop around in shorts and spring fashion. I was caught more than once shivering outside due to deceiving sunshine, but refused to give up my mid-calf tight and oversized bright yellow Saint Norbert sweatshirt. It just feels so good to shed off thick layers of winter clothes, and I'm already in summer-mode.

February and March have been two months of lightheartedly silliness. A week after Vietnam, a very special friend of Yuko and I, Xue Lor, came to visit us in New York. A Hmong immigrant, Xue spent many years at a overcrowded refugee camp in Thailand before settling in Green Bay, Wisconsin. With shaved head and broad smile, Xue resembles a bear-hugged jolly Buddha who often whole-heartedly bends his head over so we can rub it for good luck.

Xue was a big brother to me at Saint Norbert, as he was big brother to everyone who needed help. Most often it's the richest guys and most coquettish girls who demanded the most attention and most easily forgot. He'd help them out anyway.

On my way out of the library, I often stopped by, and we'd talk for hours about finding identities, finding love, keeping love. We still do.

Funny how life sometimes throws us such sudden and lovely treat. Xue in New York has giantly and dramatically altered my world, in the most unexpected way. It turned out, a little nudge was all I needed.

The flight was long, longer than I last remembered (I was too cheap to get a nicer route, lesson learned). Olya once told me she felt like she was always on plane rides back and forth from the U.S. and Russia - how terrible that must be, I thought sympathetically while experimenting restlessly with my legs to find a comfortable pose. Tough luck.

Tan Son Nhat airport was more beautiful than I last remembered. Turned out it was brand new, freshly finished by the Japanese a few months ago. I could felt the change of attitude the minutes the plane landed: pride sparkled in the eyes of airport workers; returners were more awed at their stylish outfits than they were at eager visitors' blond hair and blue eyes. A good sign, I guess.

Honestly I don't remember much from this trip home. I only remember one feeling: that of waking up with the sun fully shone onto your face. That of calm blessing, full happiness, heart-wrenching warmth, and terrible, terrible nostalgia.

Truthfully I couldn't even recall what we did, obviously tons of family bonding since it was New Year. I did remember grinning from ears to ears with my cousins, playing badminton at the crack of dawn with Grandpa, cleaning vegetables with Grandma, and standing numbly in front of my sister's jar of ashes wishing so bad for an alternative...

Frankly now it is rather painful to recall, as such sweet thoughts trigger a bad case of homesickness. I can say though, that I was refilled with much souls and sunshine.

1. One time, at one of our check-on-each-other routine, Mugg told me a funny line from a movie: "You can lose money chasing after women, but you'll never lose women chasing after money." He then looked at me and laughed, "But you are different. You are a bum, so this might not work." I resented him outwardly, but secretly was content.

"Here is your food, miss" - the delivery guy from the Vietnamese restaurant I ordered on Seamless Web handed me the plastic bag with a toothless smile. He wore a flurry hat with flaps covering his ears - the one we often fondly called "Russian hat", an oversized coat damp with the first New York snow, but no gloves. I could see clearly his red knuckles and cracked fingers. Outside, on his bike hastily leaned against the black marble wall of 1166 Avenue of the Americas, I saw dangling more plastic bags - he was on his usual delivery routine. But I have never noticed until now: his red sniffing nose, his shivering shoulders, the piercing cold of an indifferent winter in a rather indifferent city.

"Oh... it must be so cold outside." - I said almost apologetically, wishing I had brought more tips down.

"Yes, cold." - He nodded several times - "These, warm." - and pulled out a cigarette half smoked with a light laugh. I lingered to watch him: as soon as he exited the revolving door, he lighted the half-done cigarette, hunching his shoulders to shield it from the wind and took few satisfying deep puffs. Then he hopped onto the bicycle and pedaled away.

New York seemed to dissolved, and I could suddenly see myself, on a bicycle, wheeling away down the crooked pebble roads of New Orleans one winter night, a delivery girl.

I had to run to the bathroom to cry a little. And I wondered how had I forgotten all about it - my other life - the moment I started earning paychecks and swiping credit cards. Hard times...

Over dinner in the still busy office, I scrolled through my pictures from long long ago, and suddenly wondered what had happened to them - the friends I met and the friends I lost. Oleysha and Ivan, a poor but loving Russian couples from Wisconsin who shared with me their winter coat and home cooked dinner. The two little kids we met in a monastery in Tiksey, India whose hair were full of sand and who fell asleep so easily on the earth. The rich doctor family of Saint Charles residents who were rude and impatient, but kind enough to give me a ride for one and half year of high school. The Jamaican handy man with hope in his eyes, who I later learned has cheated on his wife and ran off to another Bahamas island...

All those people from a long time past which I do not want to relive, but know that it was much more poignant than the life I am now living.

Unless I could make this new, beautiful, comfortable, American-dream life as meaningful as I aspired it to be.

And so I pray - pray you remind me of the more important things worth living for...

Few weeks ago, as I was having dinner with Esther, Fumi and Craig to celebrate the close of our big - and my first - case, one of us brought up whether we enjoyed working better than school. We all agreed we did, though what Esther added startled me, "Working is great, though you tend to lose perspective. You know, when we start wearing suits we tend to inflate our importance. I bet you, if one day - phooof - I just disappear," she shrugged, "Manuel would be sad for a while, but he will survive. And Fred surely will find another consultant in no time." Manuel is Esther's boyfriend who she has dated for seven years, and Fred Dunbar is the founder of our securities practice, who often comments on Esther's efficiency.

The woman really got me thinking.

After two painful days of pure programming, I admitted she was right: should tomorrow comes and phoooff, I disappear, I wonder would anyone notice. Certainly not my landlord, since rent was just due last week.

A liberal art education really tries hard to pump our head that we are somebody, that little things we do in aggregation can have big impact, that we are at worst educated and responsible. Truth is, as I come to learn a little perspective, you and I are - no matter how much Nat King Cole insists - replaceable.

Replace-able. Re-p-la-ce-a-ble. I repeated the word out loud several times, a little overwhelmed.

After dinner, I shrugged and accepted it. I thought of a de-motivational poster Mug once showed me with pictures of a million snowflakes captioned "Always remember that you are unique. Just like everyone else."

And so, tonight, lying in bed with mismatching socks and messy hair, I kind of just... disappear.

- Mugggg. I'm hugging a porcupine. And so are you.
-.... That makes no sense. What porcupine?
- The one with sharp feathers.
-.... Are you okay?
- I'm sorry. We should never have hugged that porcupine.
- (logged off)

Out of sinister curiosity, I googled "hug a porcupine", and damn me, it was the name of a book by psychologist John Lund "How to hug a porcupine: Dealing with Toxic and Difficult to Love Personalities." The world is bleeding expressions, seriously.

As I scrambled up the stair home tonight, I saw a snail in the middle of a step. Naked without its shell, the thing looked raw and fleshy, a little disgusting in fact. I poked at it with a leaf, and it startled, quickly withdrew its squishy antennas and rolled up into a ball. A second later, it ventured the antennas out, turned them 180 degrees and I could see, from the very end of the flesh, two tiny black dots peering at me. We looked at each other for a good thirty seconds, I was admiring the vague brown veins under its porcelain skin, and who knows what it found interesting on my humanly face. With the best intention of saving it from careless footsteps, I gently cuddled it up onto the leaf and brought it down to the last step - where, I thought, it might find food easier. But what the hell do snails eat anyway? I thought hard, but had no idea. Meanwhile, the snail angrily rolled down the leaf and mightily stretched its bodice upward. Such great effort. I could see every muscle tensing up and relaxing, rolling flesh and veins, leaving behind a trace of sticky saliva.

My brain slowed down to catch up with its slowness. Then I remembered the porcupine and every neuron dashed again.

Friday night movie and an abrupt goodbye. The men then headed out to a bar. Apparently, according to them, I'm "always invited" even if they don't articulate it, only because "you bring all the girls." I was a little sad. Half of the time I feel like I'm one of the guys, half of the time I'm bothered that I'm not "really a girl" in their eyes and they won't put me on their list. It's a lose-lose situation. But it's a conscious choice: I cannot be their definition of a "normal, f-able girl", whatever be the benefits.

Mug insisted to me, to men there're only 2 kinds of girls: f-able and un-f-able. So I was written off in the un-f-able list, thanks to "We need someone to listen to our most glorious victory and our most miserable outcast!" - they scratched their heads apologetically.

Saturday, I joined the Oliver Wyman group in a firm-wide volunteer day, spending 5 hours painting murals for an elementary school in Brooklyn. The mural depicted the cover of a picture book: three black kids with happy face are jumping up and down, showered in stars, while random frogs are spurring everywhere above their head. The frogs all wear elaborated shoes, the shoelaces of which took us hours to shade. I had a blast mixing paint and making up random story lines on why the frogs all have such colorful shoes. I think they're all great princes turned into frogs awaiting the kiss of true love. That's why the world is left with men who define girls in2 categories, f or un-f-able.

And that's when, as if struck by a lightning, I discovered that I'm still a lost teenager at heart.

Saturday night, Yuko took me to Moonfield, a newly open fancy hotel in midtown where she had gift certificates for the most delicious Violet Blueberry Martinis. Tipsy and laughing after two drinks, we made a list of all the things we must do before leaving New York. Yuko and Trang's list of Becoming Good Women. I suddenly felt so young and full of the American dream, as if six years hadn't flown by and I hadn't been wearing an inside-out shirt in a world of outside-in garments.

So we bottom-uped our pretty martini glasses and stumbled down 5th Ave in our high-heeled boots, just in time for a call from Brendan and Yi to meet up for dinner. They were stunned that we already got the Asian glow at 8pm on a Sat night, and we laughed brightly at their usual co-worker-ship humor. They however caught up to us fast at an underground cozy sake bar in East Village, where the sake are named after - most likely - your desired opposite sex: Rich and Smooth, Round and Well-defined, Strong and Unforgettable. Here Yi found his favorite and started to look dreamy after the 5th bottle; Brendan too hit it hard with a shot of Tequila. Yuko, the legendary drinker, of course beat both men; and I stick with my beloved plum wine, just how I like it: Tender and Sweet.

Tipsy enough to tred dangerous water, we decided to play Truth and Dare. The long-haired Japanese waiter broke into a laugh when, losing a dare, I smiled bright at him and complimented on his cuteness. But the damage is nothing compared to Truth. Too much information disclosed. Co-worker-ship is finally broken into a more nuance territory: friends with embarrassing secrets.

After the sake bar, it was Yi and Brendan who stumbled as we finished off the night in a hookah bar, collapsing our lungs with breaths of sweet apple between sips of Moroccan beers and yummy bites of baklava. The lounge was magically transformed into a disco floor as Hips Don't Lie blasted the foggy air and a multi-color disco ball started spinning. Women and men hollered; I became miserably thoughtful over my kir glass, Brendan almost passed out, and Yi refused to tell us the only way that a woman can take advantage of a drunk man.

The sun had almost peaked over the horizon by the time that we, the lost teenagers of Never Neverland, drunk out of our minds and forgetful of our pains and the world's trouble, knocked our knees on the sidewalk to crawl home.

We all woke up the next morning with a huge hangover and a revised list.

Sunday, Yuko and I went to Carnegie Hall for a piano concert of Beethoven's sonatas. Sophisticated classical music did not make an impression on my mind. I miss Chopin and Rachmaninoff and the age of lost romance.

Sunday night, Mug and I went running along the Hudson to prepare for the race in Central Park. The night was beautiful: Manhattan lazily cast the lime lights on our moving shadows, the breeze whizzed through our panting breaths. Soon my knees lost feelings and my breaths got heavier; but in automatic motions we kept steady steps. I felt peaceful, blank, free of Descartes' cursed existence: the existence of thoughts.

I was so tired that I didn't feel it till much later: the slap, full in the face, burning hot.

Just a typical weekend.

Listen to the Bayou
Can you feel the blues
In my lonely heart…

“The Bayou is a river that moves with the ties,” Kaitlin’s dad explained to me as we drove along a branch of the Mississippi river that used to be a heavy trading route back in the days. I realize how often I use the phrase: back in the days when we used to go to Franklin, back in the days when Coach Firneno’d make girls bend over to check if their skirts were long enough, back in the days when we’d roll down Saint Charles on the streetcar named Desire and lazily sipped a paper cup of latte at the Café du Monde…

I dropped by 3437 Napoleon Ave at midnight. In the eerie chilly air, a lone streetlight casted my peeled shadow on the wall of a ghost town. The whole street was deserted. The little basement where 7 Vietnamese families used to live and fight over the bathroom now stood empty, its walls stripped down exposing molded beams, its floors dusty, still lingering the smell of stale water. I looked at my shawdow on the plastered wall and cried a little. Hard times...

3437 Napoleon Ave was never quiet on the bathroom front: something was always stuck, or missing - most often toilet paper. Someone (impossibled to identified, since there were at least 20 of us living in the space of 5) had hiden the toilet paper away, right on the day Elisa dropped by and had to pee. So we ran to the public library down the road and stole all of its toilet paper. Becky O'Malley - upon learning this - condemned us of stealing against the Catholic Archdiosese and the next day, brough me a package of 12 rolls, which lasted me till the day I left.

Becky was the first true American friend I had. Apparently she had noticed me thanks to the school bus incident. You see, I didn't belong to the yellow school bus that picked kids up from their houses. I usually took the public bus, but somehow that day I needed to get home fast. So I kinda just climbed on the yellow bus, hoping the lady wouldn't noticed. But of course she did, stopped the vehicle, and tried to kick me out. And well - I begged, please, i'm from Vietnam, I don't know how to get home, please take me. I must have reminded her of a strayed dog, because she let me stay. True, I was a strayed dog. In the back, Becky had a great laugh out of the incident, and noticed the next day that I was in her homeroom. So she asked me to come over her house to watch some animation.

I have too many stories to tell about Ben Franklin High School - its notorious green roof, the Rapuzel-haired Ms. Fontenot, Coach Firneno - an ex-marine who taught with a yard-long rulerstick and many many other characters that could have come straight from the satire The Confederacy of Dunces. Kaitlin Baudier took me back to Franklin the night before I left, so I could glue my nose to the glass door and squint at the status of Monsieur Benjamin, standing so proudly in the centre of the hallway, like he has always. Kaitlin is the female version of a true Huck Finn. Her famous Hess story goes like this: Mr. Hess - the economic teacher - always wore red socks. His classic pose: slumping in the armchair, arms folded, his feet on the table, red socks exposing, the corner of his mouth sagged down , ready to spit out sarcastic comments as the students poured into class. One day, Kaitlin realized she also had red socks on. So she pulled up a desk straight in front of his table, put her feet up and assumed the same pose. Hess said nothing but looked at her. They just sat there for 10 mins, red socks looking at each other. All the students pointed, laughed, talked, then got really quiet. Eventually, Kaitlin couldn't hold it anymore, so she broke out into a laugh. "Ha!" Hess said, put his feet down, and started the class.

Bruce was my first kiss - a 6 feet 4 muscular guy with a huge smile and goofy mind. Like Kaitlin, Bruce is the kind of kid that can sit down at all cafeteria tables (the Asian table, the Black table, the Gothic squatting group, the nerds) and would be welcomed. Everytime he saw me running down the hall, bookpack unzipped and notebooks spilling out, he'd pick me up with one arm, hailed me across his shoulder and carried me and my books to the next class. On weekend, he'd take us out on his beat-up truck - whose wheel was not even working unless you banged on it hard. We cruised down the water front, along the lake, veering left and right, bruised as we smashed side to side in the tight cabin.

One day, Kaitlin and Paoblo - a sturdy red-headed with a long beard - were fighting in the hall. Paoblo smashed Kaitlin's head, so she punched him in the stomach and pulled his beard down. Just their luck, Ms. Gills - the grumpy Creative Writing teacher - turned the corner and caught them. So, they stopped as quick as lightning, stood mellowly side by side like two innocent statues. Ms. Gills looked at them tentatively, and decided they were making out, so she gave them a PDA offense. Kaitlin later explained to her parents, "No, we were fighting, and Paoblo is dating a man right now!"

Apparently Paoblo has become gay - which was funny to me since he once asked me out on a date. James Page - my biggest high school crush - has also declared that he is gay. And Brian Pittman - the anime fanatic - got married and played a vampire movie in the church (the priest ran yelling, you cannot play images of the undead here!) Elisa and Kaitlin are now living in FEMA trailers because their houses were flooded. Ben Franklin has become a charter school. Ngoc has committed suicide. And Lanisha died last May of a brain tumor, after beling locked out by her crack-head boyfriend. I remember she was so pretty, the prettiest girl in school. I always bumped into her crying in the bathroom because her family did not approve their relationship ("he is white, but so what!")

And... life goes on.

Does Ms. Fontenot still have long hair? Does Coach Firneno still have his yard-long rulerstick to make girls bend down so he can check the length of their skirts? Mr. Hess still wears red socks?

Life must go on.

Goodbye New Orleans. I come back there everytime I need a little bit of soul, a little air to breath, a little right to be ridiculous, a little jazz down in the French Quarter - a little me.

Goodbye New Orleans, time to move on.

BẠN
Khóc bạn hôm nay khóc mãi thôi
Tương lai mơ ước, cuộc đời ơi
Sách vở trăm năm chưa ráo mực
Tài năng một chốc ngọc đà rơi

Tri kỷ còn đây vẫn sớm hôm
Hai mươi mốt tuổi, một tâm hồn
Hải ơi, chữ còn, người còn mãi
Sâu thẳm trong tim: "bạn trong tôi".

Lê Minh Đức (04 - 02 - 2007)

I last met him at the VietAbroader 2005 Conference in Hanoi. He walked in the Twin Towers in white shirt and blue slacks - the usual uniform, though he is already in college - and tapped on my shoulders. We could only chat for a little bit, then I had to go back to greet the guests. I asked him about school in Vietnam, and he smiled sadly that it was pretty bad. I thought it was just another normal complaint - like we always complained. After the conference, he went to shake my hands, and said it was great. He left - and never, never would I have thought - that is the last time.

We did not hang out a lot in secondary school - partly because I sat in the front and he in the back. He was rather quiet back then. This morning, as I frantically scrolled through old friends' blogs, I was suddenly horrified that I didn't quite remember his face. But now it all came back: we sat side by side on a bench outside the Hanoi Twin Towers, I was wearing ao dai and sitting up straight, he rested his elbows on his knees, head bended, wavy hair, a smile slightly sad.

I feel floating, bloating - the same feeling when the acolhol has just hit the brain, slowly numbing the neurons and making life a little more surreal than it should. I remember feeling like this at Christmas 2004, sitting in Sara Snider's living room and crying uncontrollably when Ms. Brandon said, "Ngoc hung herself in the backyard on Christmas Eve." I remember going to her funeral, looking at her purplish stony face, and thought - how could it be, she was always smiling, sitting near my locker in the hallways of Ben Franklin High School. She was always early and I always late. She was always smiling and I perpetually depressed all high school life. How could it be that I am still alive and living while she is dead?

I remember my art class in 5th grade. The teacher tried to teach us to analyze a painting that made a big impression on me. It painted a funeral parade marching through the field, amid the sky and the earth. The parade was tiny, we could only made out the long dark rectangular shape of the coffin. The sky was very blue, but took up only a fifth upper part of the canvas. The other four-fifth was stark black, representing the earth where the coffin was soon to enter. The title was "Gan dat xa troi."

Meanwhile, another New Year is coming...

I remember at age 10, I was addicted to a certain adventure series named TKKG, about four German teenagers who sneaked out of school, chased criminals, flirted, basically kicked ass in all meaningful senses. I remember my anxious longing to grow up fast, to be 15 and full moon, so I could sneak out and chase criminals and do all these great things too. Well - so I realized later this Don Quixote complex - as age 15 rolled around, while I did in fact sneak out of school numerous times, this action resulted in many spitting scoldings; and I still did not find any criminal that I could safely chase let alone kick ass.

Oh well.

When my friends saw my passport picture at age 15, they were further convinced of the myth that Asians age less fast than the rest of humankind. In fact, I did look much older at 15 years-old than I do now at 20. All of us Asians out there however know to ourselves that myth is but myth. I for example am quite convinced that the delayed aging has nothing to do with my yellow undertone but everything to do with my sleep and fulfillment.

At 20, and a senior in college, I was suddenly wind-striken to realize: I am young. In fact, so young. The realization, seemingly simple, is revolutionary to someone like me, who has anguished - and took pride - in being more mature/experienced than most peers, even certain older people. I am surprised, and somewhat disturbed, to learn that I am more and more carefree and nonchalant, more and more optimistic about rosy future and lasting love, that I love the way it is now and am reluctant to reverse - even at the expense of some higher purposes. Instead of power, responsibility and burden, I feel light headed and light feeted, in denial of pain or worries or fear.

It's bad.

I am a happiness junkie. I'm overdosed with laughter and my veins are caked with the cocaine of love. But oh how lovely it feels!

And precisely this - not my tailored resume nor my many econometrics model - is my much-valued liberal arts education. What a disheartening thought to have to graduate.

Cuối cùng thì tuyết cũng rơi, hối hả rải trắng xoá những mái nhà gạch đỏ và đóng băng chiếc hồ nhỏ trước cửa toà nhà Olin. Bầy vịt đã bay đi tránh rét từ khi nào. Trời thoắt lạnh căm, thâu thấu chích những gò má đỏ ửng và hắt bông tuyết lốp xốp bạt ngang những làn mi chớp chớp. Sáng dậy nghe cổ họng nhoi nhói tôi biết là mùa đông thực sự đã đến, chậm trễ hơn mọi năm nhưng không kém phần cay cú. Iris và Mai ló đầu vào la toáng "Lạnh quá!" với bốn mắt kính còn phủ mờ hơi. Tôi lục cục lôi quần đông xuân, khăn len và dầu khuynh diệp ra lót gối sẵn sàng. Biết ngay mà, trời trở rét chưa được mấy hôm thì mũi tôi đã sụt sịt, phổi phập phồng. Năm nào cũng thế, ốm rồi.

Cũng chẳng trách tuyết được. Cũng tại tôi. Ngày đầu tiên tuyết rơi, tôi và Iris oà lên ngưỡng mộ cái vẻ đẹp trinh trắng và thanh toát của miền xứ lạnh. Tuyết rơi nóng hổilàm mọi thứ thật sạch sẽ, phẳng lì. Như hai con điên, chúng tôi qươ quýt áo khoác, xô nhau chạy ra ngoài để lăn lóc, vùng vẫy chân tay in dấu một thiên thần trên nền tuyết mới toanh. Tôi nằm đó thật lâu, thầm dần hơi lạnh, mơ màng nhìn lên màn trời đêm đen ngòm lốm đốm những sao. Dường như tuyết đã đóng băng cả thời gian và những lo âu. Chỉ còn lại trắng xoá một cảm giác êm đềm.

Đêm thứ sáu vừa buông, một mớ nhạc tả pí lù đã chan chát khắp ký túc xá. Đâu đâu cũng thấy sinh viên thoăn thoắt tuồn bia, rượu, mồi nhử vào phòng. Và những tiếng rù rì: "Nửa đêm tiệc ở ký túc xá Smith nhé" hoặc "Hookah ở phòng tao" hoặc "Mày có ID không? Đang cần thêm mấy két..." Marta réo tôi trên điện thoại, "Đến nhanh đi. Nhớ mang đồ đấy!" Sau mấy lần cạn chén với nhóm Adams, tôi líu ríu vứt chai vodka vào trong túi xách, rồi khoác vai Kevin loạng choạng lên đường. Trời thì lạnh mà vodka thì ấm hôi hổi như cái sự ham vui của chúng tôi. Vừa đi tôi và Mai vừa hát toáng Mỹ Tâm, "Vẫn biết yêu người không lối thoát..." chỉ sực nhớ suỵt nhau im im khi đi ngang qua toà nhà giám thị.

Phòng Marta thơm lừng mùi thuốc lá caramen của hookah - một kiểu tẩu nước nổi tiếng từ vùng Trung Cận Đông, với thân thuỷ tinh duyên dáng và những ống hút dài uyển chuyển. Cem - người Thổ Nhĩ Kỳ - vừa thong thả rít thuốc vừa nhả chầm chậm những hình tròn khói, trong khi Besir từ Macedonia và cô bạn gái người Kosovo say sưa nhảy một vũ điệu vùng Balkan. Marta ngồi đê mê một lúc lâu, thi thoảng lại thổi sâu vào một chiếc ống gỗ dài ngoằng - một thứ nhạc cụ lạ đời từ Châu Phi. Tôi biết cô đang nghĩ gì.

Kevin dóng lên một nhịp hip hop giòn giã, và những người đang ngồi trầm ngâm lập tức sáng mắt, vai nhún nhún theo điệu nhạc. Sherraine, cô gái da ngăm chân dài, nhảy phắt dậy, loang loáng uốn mình trong tiếng vỗ tay và hò reo của bạn bè. Tôi cũng bị kéo dậy, và mặc dù đầu óc lơ mơ cũng bắt đầu tự động đung đưa theo những ngâm nga của Nelly. Marissa hào hứng xoay khắp nơi, đầu gối chùng và mái tóc đen dài quất lên xuống. Nhảy một hồi hết hơi, tôi bỏ ra ngoài hớp một luồng khí lạnh trong lành. Marta đang tựa lưng trên bậc cầu thang, lơ đãng chập chờn đốm tàn thuốc lá với Binit. Tôi quàng tay qua vai hai người bạn. Không ai nói gì, chỉ nhìn mãi vào màn tuyết vẫn rơi hối hả.

4 giờ sáng, tôi lê lết về phòng, đầu nóng hổi, chân tê cứng và mệt rã rời. Mai lờ đờ quăng áo khoác xuống sàn, "Đói quá!" Một người bạn thực thụ, Iris lục tục đặt cơm. Tôi bày ruốc, cá cơm và muối vừng xuống sàn, rồi ba đứa dập dờn nhai trong cơn buồn ngủ. Khi Iris quay về phong yên giấc rồi Mai vẫn còn nán lại. Nhìn mặt nó thần thờ tôi biết là nó đang buồn. Lôi ô mai và sấu cay ra, tôi gạ nó ăn. Trời đã sáng, hai đứa vẫn vừa nhằn ô mai vừa thủ thỉ, rồi ngủ gục lúc nào không hay.

Sáng hôm sau, tôi tỉnh dậy với cổ họng đau buốt và trán hâm hấp cơn sốt đầu mùa. Lo lắng ra mặt, Mai và Iris mang nào thuốc nào chè nào mật ong sang săn đón, tha hồ cho tôi vòi vĩnh mát-xa và sai vặt. Mai vừa thò tay bốc ô mai vừa cằn nhằn, "Lợi dụng ghê quá!" nhưng vẫn tăm tắp pha vitamin cho tôi uống.

Ôi một thời sinh viên...

Ông tôi có thể phong biệt danh "chuyên gia" cho bất cứ ai: bác tôi khi đi làm về hay càu nhàu thì bị ông phong là "chuyên gia nhăn", bà ngoại hơi tí là hoảng lên thì bị ông giễu là "chuyên gia la oai oái", còn tôi - rất cứng đầu cứng cổ - thì ông hay cốc đầu gọi là "chuyên gia lì." Riêng mình, ông có rất nhiều danh hiệu: nào là chuyên gia giặt quần áo, chuyên gia rửa bát, chuyên gia xe ôm cho chị em chúng tôi. Ngay cả những chuyện không ai muốn rớ tay vào, ông cũng làm chuyên gia được, chẳng hạn như chuyên gia dọn ống cống, chuyên gia cọ nồi, chuyên gia lắng nghe và vỗ về mỗi khi bà ngoại lên cơn giận - mỗi trận dài, bất thường và dấm dẳng như mưa hè. Chẳng thế mà cả nhà tôi, càng ớn bà ngoại thì càng nể ông ngoại. Thì chỉ có ông mới trị được bà, mà bao giờ cũng vui vẻ đáp ứng nguyện vọng của chúng tôi mà lị!

Ông thường hay xoa đầu tôi bảo, mày là có nhiều kỷ niệm với ông bà nhất. Cũng đúng, ông bà nuôi tôi từ nhỏ, mãi đến năm 1998 lúc tôi 12 tuổi, bà sợ lạnh kéo ông chuyển vào Sài Gòn ở thì tôi mới bắt đầu sống với mẹ. Ông rất thương tôi - một kiểu thương "đầu hàng" rất khác với bà. Ông thường hay giấu bà dẫn tôi đi ăn cháo lòng và cua luộc - hai món tôi mê mẩn mà bà chê là "đồ dơ" ngoài đường. Những năm 90, ông góp nhặt tậu được chiếc xe mô-kích của Nga đỏ chói, bình xăng to đùng chễm chệ trước yên lái. Tôi là đứa cháu đầu tiên được ông kê lên bình xăng, chở chạy lòng vòng khắp Hà Nội chơi, và rẽ vào Tràng Tiền ăn kem ốc quế. Sau này, khi ông tậu được con xe Dream êm ru, tôi cũng là đứa đầu tiên được tõm lên yên xe, lò mò cùng ông đi khắp các tiệm sách cũ Hà Nội để truy tìm những quyển tiểu thuyết ố vàng không còn tái bản...

Khác mẹ hay bà, ông không vặn vẹo hỏi han, cũng không bàn lùi những chuyện tôi muốn làm. Ông chỉ lẳng lặng đáp ứng mọi yêu cầu của tôi bằng vỏn vẹn hai chữ "Được thôi!" Và mỗi lần tôi khoe với ông kết quả - điểm 10, rồi giải thưởng Quốc Gia, chuyến đi Phillipines, học bổng Mỹ - ông lại thích chí vỗ đùi đánh đét và chà chà tự hào, "Thu Trang mà lị, có phải đùa đâu!"

Ông chưa một lần giận tôi - hay làm tôi giận. Thực ra ông chính là "đồng loã" của tôi trong những cuộc "nổi dậy" chống lại sự kìm kẹp của bà và mẹ. Chẳng hạn như chuyện của dì Tám, cháu gọi bà ngoại tôi là cô. Tôi rất quý dì Tám. Hồi nhỏ dì hay tới chơi với tôi, dẫn tôi đi mua kẹp tóc, dạy tôi hát và nấu cà ri gà cho tôi ăn. Dì hơn tôi năm, sáu tuổi, trẻ và vui nên tôi rất thích đi theo dì tầm sư học đạo. Vài năm trước, dì có xích mích gì đó với bà ngoại - chỉ một câu nói phật lòng thôi - thế là bà cấm cửa dì, không cho bao giờ lại nhà nữa. Ba năm trôi qua, ngay khi dì lấy chồng, sinh con, hai cô cháu vẫn không hề gặp mặt nhau làm lành. Hè khi tôi về chơi, ông liền sắp đặt giấu bà dẫn tôi đi thăm dì - cũng như ngày xưa còn bé ông hay giấu bà mua truyện tranh cho tôi đọc, hay đưa tôi đi chơi đây đó. Với một đồng loã trunh thành như thế, tôi làm sao có thể giận được! Thế nên, tôi có thể phản ứng quyết liệt lại những cáu gắt chửi mắng của bà và mẹ, nhưng không bao giờ có thể lên gân với ông. Biết thế, ông cười khoái trí bảo tại vì ông là chuyên gia có tình có lí. Còn tôi và mẹ và bà - thực ra thì đều từ một khuôn mà ra cả, thế nên con nhà tông không giống lông thì cũng phải giống cái bướng bỉnh thôi!

Lên cấp 2, tôi mới biết thực ra ông không phải là ông ruột của tôi. Ông ruột của tôi mất trước khi tôi sinh ra, vì vấp phải một quả bom chìm khi xung phong đi gỡ mìn sau chiến tranh. Ông Phong (ông tôi bây giờ) là bạn cùng quê với bà từ hồi còn nhỏ xíu, tình cờ gặp lại sau chiến tranh trên một chuyến tàu về thành phố. Bà kể, hôm đó mẹ tôi sốt rất cao, bà lại phải về báo cáo nhận công tác. Nhân gặp ông trên tàu, bà nhờ ông đưa mẹ về trước, và cảm động thấy ông chăm sóc mẹ rất cẩn thận. Mẹ và bác tôi thì kể là hồi đó, hai người rất ghét ông, vì tính ông rất cục, làm gì cũng ngay lập tức, hùng hục, không lần chần nhân nhượng bao giờ. Còn ông, ông hay nằm vắt trán lơ đãng bảo tôi rằng, ngày xưa bà tôi rất đẹp, đẹp nhất cái xã Đức Phổ tỉnh Quảng Ngãi. Bà lại là con nhà quan, ông cố có hẳn xe đò cho người ta thuê lái. Còn ông thì con nhà một ông giáo nghèo, ngày ngày đạp xe theo xe đò chở bà đi học. Sau khi lấy nhau, bà nhất quyết không chịu có thêm con vì sợ cảnh "con anh, con tôi" sau này. Thế nên ông không có con ruột - nhưng chúng tôi không ai, không một ai, có thể chối đẩy rằng ông chính là ông ruột của chúng tôi.

Nôen 2006 về thăm nhà, tôi giật mình thấy ông gầy đi rất nhiều. Da ông vẫn đen cháy khoẻ mạnh, nhưng gò mà ông đã hốc lại. Đã 73, ông vẫn lái xe máy vù vù đi chợ, nhưng răng ông đã phải nhổ gần hết một hàm và làm răng giả. Mỗi lần ra khỏi nhà, ông không bao giờ quên cầm theo mũ, khẩu trang và một chai nước cho chúng tôi giải khát - thế nhưng ông luôn luôn quên hàm răng giả của mình, để em họ tôi phải chỉ vào cái miệng rỗng không của ông la toáng lên ông mới hấp tấp quay xe lại. Thế cũng không lạ - thế mới đúng là ông tôi.

Nôen 2006 - khi tiễn tôi ra sân bay, mắt ông bỗng dưng nheo nheo, cái miệng rỗng không hơi há ra, quăn lại giật giật. Những nếp nhăn của ông cuồn cuộn trào lên - hình ảnh một lão Hạc bất lực và yếu đuối của Nam Cao khi bán con chó Vàng quý báu của mình. Ông khóc. Lần đầu tiên trong đời tôi thấy ông khóc, như một bộ phim quay chậm, méo mó, ngạt thở đến vỡ tim. 30 tiếng sau đó suốt quãng đường qua Mĩ, và ngay lúc này đây, mỗi lần tưởng tượng lại gương mặt nhàu nhĩ, giật giật của ông, tôi lại trào nước mắt. Cũng dễ hiểu thôi - tôi là một đứa hay mít ướt - và hơn nữa, ông là tuổi thơ của tôi. Hồi cấp 1, khi tôi bị một thằng nhóc lớn hơn đuổi đến mức ngã chảy máu hết hai đầu gối, ông đã xách tai nó lại bắt nó phải vòng tay xin lỗi tôi. Tôi lớn lên trước hết trên yên xe của ông, rướn cổ háo hức nghe ông kể những câu chuyện làm súng, hút thuốc phiện với dân Mèo thời bộ đội. Tuổi thơ của tôi là dám láo toét xoa xoa cái đầu hói gần hết của ông, trêu trọc sao da ông đen trũi. Và ông luôn đáp tỉnh bơ, "Da đen mà đời đỏ thì mới tài chứ!"

Ông của tôi - với lòng bàn tay đầy chai và những móng chân gập gẫy, với những chiếc răng khập khiễng và lung lay - ông là định nghĩa gia đình của tôi. Ông là xe máy, là đường Giải Phóng, là chiều ba mươi Tết, là vỉa hè, là gạo chín thơm lừng. Ông là cảm giác vững chãi, là xót xa, là nỗi nhớ nhà, là thời gian. Là sợi dây chặt nhất sẽ kéo tôi luôn luôn quay trở lại...