Mom
Nonfiction by Grace Sinats
Still Life by Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Courtesy National Gallery of Art, Washington
It was just before 6:30 a.m. when Alesia and I disembarked from the Reunification Express train. Our packs sat heavy on our backs, still aching from a rough night's sleep. Hard mattresses are typical in most parts of Vietnam, but this time it had been nothing more than a slab of wood, a thin sheet, and a lost fight against the cold fan of the train car.
"At least we weren't on those wooden benches,” I said. It was a futile attempt at appreciation, but I've been told gratitude tends to soften discomfort.
Bleary eyes led us through the sea of Grab drivers on motorbikes, yelling, “Where are you going? I'll give you a better price!” Usually, we would pick at random. This time, however, we had someone waiting for us.
About forty paces ahead, a man sat quietly holding a sign with our names: “Alesia Ungureanu and Grace Sinats.”
“He spelled our last names correct,” Alesia remarked as a smile cracked across her face. You don’t typically get this sort of service living the backpacker life. The feeling of being seen, being expected, was not lost on us.
The drive was long and quiet, but an excellent opportunity for a nap on something soft. We arrived in Hoi An an hour later. The quaint city came into view as I lifted my head from Alesia’s shoulder. We were dropped off on an odd-looking side street, smattered with dimly lit broken streetlights and parked motorbikes. Soon, we were alone, our packs dropped on a stoop. We were once again in a new and unfamiliar city.
“Come in, please!” cCalled Hien's voice, gentle and warm. I first noticed her eyes; they showed a kindness that was common in most Vietnamese locals. She brought us inside, sitting us down on her fuzzy brown couch.
“How was your trip here?” she asked. “You must be tired—it is still very early.”
“It was good, thank you,” I murmured, stifling a yawn. “We’ve never had a car arranged for us before. Thank you so much.”
She did not care for thanks.
“I’m happy you’re here, but I still have to clean,” she said briskly. “Please, shower if you’d like, freshen up. If you have laundry, I can take it. Then, we can talk.” We took turns in the small shower room, washing the poor night’s sleep off our backs. While I waited, I watched Hien work. She swept and mopped, asking me to lift my feet but never to move. Her work was thorough and her movements easy, as if she were performing a well-choreographed dance.
She dusted her shelves, taking special care of a small—what I assumed to be a Buddhist—altar in the corner. She lit several stems of sweet-smelling incense, allowing the smoke to hang visibly in the air. Then came the carefully placed chrysanthemums and jasmine, a bottle of Coke and a packet of cookies, all consecrated with a deep bow. I wondered who she was praying to. What deity desired both sweet florals and soda? She must have sensed my curiosity as she answered my unasked questions.
“I fill the altar to the Buddha each day,” she said, looking back at me. “He keeps us safe and happy. I leave offerings to show my respect and gratitude. While you are in my hostel, I hope you will offer your respect too.”
By 8 a.m., both the house and our bodies were freshly clean, and Hien sat us down to check us in. We’ve done this a million times by now. We pulled out our passports and handed them her way.
“That can wait,” she said. “First, I want to properly introduce myself.” My name is Hien, but if you want you can call me Mom.”
Mom started with an apology.
“My beds are hard, and they have no curtains. The building owner will not let me change it. I hope I will own this place within the next year.” Regardless, what she could not offer in comfort, she gave back in belonging. No matter what time you came back home, Mom met you at the door.
“Hi, Grace and Alesia! How was your day?” she would ask. She learned our names within hours and listened intently to our answers.
Gratitude tends to soften discomfort, and in Mom’s beds, we slept well.
Grace Sinats is a second year writing student at the University of Victoria. Through her focus in creative non-fiction and screenwriting, she tells meaningful and vivid stories with themes of familial history, travel and cultural experience, and social dilemmas. In her non-writing time, she enjoys creating art, going to concerts, and travelling anywhere her feet will take her. Her Instagram is @Grace.Sinats