For a long time I did not know what it means
to be homesick.

I know what it means to be carsick
Chained to cushion, afraid to motion
as I fret another swerve would tumble my stomach.
My eyes locked on the morning dew
imprinted on the window
as the hills of Lào Cai steepen.
I clench my throat and pat my chest,
my breaths heavier
as if I could prevent myself
from projectiling any moment further.

I know what it means to be seasick
Tracing the foam oscillating by the motors
of a boat so far from land
I retreat slowly inward
fleeing the sight of waves hitting the flank of the deck
They push and pull
so out of tune
and besiege me right within my own ear canals
in ceaseless upheavals.
I could not help but drown myself
in water’s violent flows
and wish I was one with it.

I know what it means to be airsick
surrendering complete control
to machinery once witchcraft.
Who knows what it exactly is turbulent
to know the rules of reality
yet helplessly lost on its commanding chaos.
No matter how many times I fly,
knock myself unconscious,
I still count down to when the wheels
scratch the barren land
to make sure I am still alive.

I learned it is not hard to desist
temptations of motion sickness
Can I close my eyes
and think of better days?
of stopping the drive to the warmth surrounding Bắc Hà village
of shiny stones surfacing sidewalks of beachside resorts
of stratospheric quietudes undisturbed by self-imbued urgencies
But what happens when
the better days are when I am home
Not home when I can be my true self
but home when I am my innocent self
Every night I play a cassette tape
of discolored memories I remembered to record
times I bought tofu from an unhygienic sky market
or rode through potholes under torrential rain
The truth is, home was rough
its conventions and traditions and relations riddled with discomfort
I struggled to ignore
Hardly can I call it better
than the journey I embarked on
and the space it opens up.

I am not even sure what it is I call home
Is home my country? one whose history I claim no authority
its sauces I barely tasted
Is home my city? one whose fabric changes every day
and familiar places effaced
Is home my house? one whose chairs haved moved, tables turned,
or clothes no longer worn
I thought I could close my eyes
and transcend the confines of home
But no fixation, recession, indisposition
could help me escape.

Recently I saw stories of friends
maneuvering the labrynthine Phố Cổ
laying sideways in an interprovincial motorcoach
hopping around the railway tracks
I watched them flicking through polymer cash bills
eating food trays on flimsy plastic chairs
drawing hand fans in the sweltering heat.
I claim no experience Vietnamese
nothing so unique
but my envy was overwhelmed with joy
and suddenly I feel
homesick.