Another young man smiled from an old school photograph, not allowed a military uniform even at his family altar. She pointed to the picture, glancing hesitantly at Condley as if she were trying to choose new words. “Anh trai.” My older brother. “Nguy,” she said at first, using the word for traitor. Then she relented, calling him the more respected term the South Vietnamese Army had used for its soldiers. “Bo binh, Viet Nam Cong Hoa.”

Her three dead children looked up from the table, next to the jar of sand. It was a group picture. Two doe-eyed little girls were hugging each other on what looked like a beach. They were laughing as a mischievous older boy grabbed them from behind, squeezing them into each other. She pointed, then said nothing.

Condley found that his arm was on her shoulder. For one elongated second he squeezed her into his chest and pressed his face into the top of her head. She smelled like soap and pho, an oddly moving combination of the present and the past.

He had brought a dozen joss sticks. He gave her half. Automatically she held them in a bundle with both hands, in front of her chest. He struck a large match, holding it under her joss sticks until they began to glow, then held his own sticks in one hand over the flame until they also were lit.

They stood silently side by side, holding the joss sticks in their palms just below their chins, their shoulders touching but separate now, repeating a ceremony that dated thousands of years, communing only with the ancestors. Outside on the street, the children called to one another again. Behind him he thought he heard scraping on concrete stairs. The sweet smoke from the joss sticks curled into the air, their odors invading his memory. He bowed once to the altar, then moved the joss sticks six times in his flattened hands, four long movements, down to his waist, then two short ones just underneath his chin. And then he placed the still-burning sticks into the sand-filled jar.

She had done likewise. They stood silently now, surrounded by the curling smoke and the presence of the dead, communicating with the spirits, listening to them. He went dreamy in his mind, not the least bit embarrassed as he spoke without words to her ancestors. He hoped they were at peace, that they would protect their family and bring peace to other families. He remembered Mai and asked them to make peace with her and her family.