Split

I see my mother, at thirteen, in a village so small it’s never given a name. Monsoon season drying up— steam lifting in full-bodied waves. She chops bắp chuối for the hogs. Her hair dips to the small of her back as if smeared in black and polished to a shine. She wears a deep side-part that splits her hair into two uneven planes. They come to watch her: Americans, Marines, just boys, eighteen or nineteen. With scissor-fingers, they snip the air, point at their helmets and then at her hair. All they want is a small lock— something for a bit of good luck. Days later, my mother is sent to the city for safekeeping. She will return home once, only to be given away to my father. In the pictures, the cake is sweet and round. My mother’s hair which spans the length of her áo dài is long, washed, and uncut.