During my work meeting today, my boss asked us if we could theoretically only plane-travel to one place, and then never travel again, where would we go? 

"Vietnam," I said. She asked why. 

I did my best to convey the kind of longing that I've felt ever since my parents told me their stories before I turned 9 years old; how my memories of visiting the streets of Sài Gòn evoke the smells of diesel, phở, cigarette smoke, and bánh mì into an aromatic concoction that I’ve only seen tangibly replicated in the Little Sài Gòn district of Garden Grove, CA; how the ghosts of Huế accompanied me on my daily walks around Hoàng thành, the ancient imperial city that echoed ghosts of its former standing as the capital of Việt Nam, as I meditated upon the water lilies and setting sun; how there was a certain logic to the chaos of streets as xe xích lô could no longer compete with the carbon power of scooters and cars, each driver instinctually inferring how the other would move and adjusting accordingly into what could only be described as constant dissonant driving harmony, all while the two xe xích lô drivers took us on a last tour of Sài Gòn before they too were pushed to extinction; how the residuals of French colonialism echoed in alleyways that housed carts of food and drinks, vendors whisking away at their respective culinary craft as the encroaching development funded by Japanese, Korean, British and American corporations loomed beyond the rooftops; how the old woman used to visit my mother, my brothers and me at our breakfast spot, always offering us her daily batch of peanuts, us always accepting her offers until we were no longer there; how the little boy abandoned his duties to sell cigarettes, lighters, and other goods to play with me on the beaches of Nha Trang, and asked me to marry him when we both grew up so we could live together in America; how my mother, my aunt, and my uncle cried and kissed the walls of their childhood home that had been stolen from them alongside their childhood, adolescence, and dreams of growing up and old in their beloved country.

“It’s where my parents are from. I used to work there as a public health intern, and there are so many cultural and historical parts that I want to visit and appreciate if I could only visit one more time.” 

My boss smiled, as did my coworkers, and as did I. Inside, however, I grew sad. 

Because how could I ever, truly evoke the longing for a country that I know is now extinct, of a country that I could never call home because imperialism and colonialism cared not for the unity of a people but for the expansion of power, using its southeastern location as the ultimate nexus of such power? 

Because how could anyone truly understand if they had never grown up with refugees, family and friends alike? How could anyone understand the sort of pain of looming extinction via assimilation and appropriation, and the struggle of making sense of where to go as my parents and the remaining generation of người Việt leave the earth, taking their memories, hopes, and dreams with them? 

So I smiled again, as my heart grew sad, and reiterated: 

“Việt Nam, always.”