A short story by Tim Truong
Luke stirred the steaming pot of bún bò huế, smoothly revolving the wooden spoon as the aroma of simmering beef and chili spices wafted through the studio apartment. Steam smothered the room in a blanket of warmth, fogging windows caked with frost. Pots and pans lay strewn across the countertop, covering a letter from his mother which had told him that his father was dead and the date for the wake. Nearly a month had passed. Luke had spent almost every waking moment making sure he could cook the dish perfectly, not even bothering to continue his year-long job search. He had not eaten, much less cooked, traditional Vietnamese food for decades, but still wanted to bring something for his mother. He remembered her saying everyone should bring food to a wake, that it was a Vietnamese tradition.
A hazy image wafted through Luke’s mind, a memory of his father cooking the same soup, but in an even tighter apartment in Malden. Familiar snatches of songs began playing in Luke’s mind, segments of Vietnamese music his parents always played when they were together. He could still feel his mother’s arms lifting him over the counter so he could peer into the pot of his father’s cooking, her voice caressing his ears.
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