Lately, the rain pours hardest at midday and all Ma does is cry in secrecy while housekeeping, dripping salt & sadness in the sink, the stove, the toaster, the pots & pans. Her tears fall like pearls into my bowl of abalone soup. I swallow a spoonful of her grief—a bitter, fishy blend of broth & brine.

The lady at the herbal shop in Little Saigon says rose tea is a cure for melancholia so Ma gulps a cup in the morning, then a glass in the afternoon expecting immediate results like it’s some kind of miracle elixir. The pink buds & sweet fragrance deceive her temporarily until bedtime when the weeping recurs.

Ma, are you OK?

Yes, Bea, I’m fine, don’t worry, go back to sleep.

She gets up and walks to the bathroom, locks the door, turns on the faucet. The rain knocks against the windows when Ma finally returns, tucks herself back in bed.

I am awake as she tosses and turns, murmuring nước, nước and I know she is dreaming of the ocean. I lie still, careful not to disturb her breathing, in and out, in and out, a slow-fast-slow-slow release, emptying, freeing, surrendering—allowing the waves to wash her sorrow, not worrying about the damp on her pillow, or if anyone heard.