My uncle says, “Well look at you. When you left you were…” He puts a hand palm down beneath his knee. “Look how she’s grown,” he says.

My aunt leans into my mom and shakes her head. “She hasn’t grown to look like you.”

I smile and ask, “Who do I look like?”

My aunt inches closer, her big brown eyes zooming in on me. She states matter-of-factly, “You look American!”

Her glistening eyes look at me with pure delight as she sizes me up. She pinches my thigh as if she can extract apple pie, five-laned freeways, glass skyscrapers, and healthy cheerleaders from my flesh. She stuffs her face into my neck and sniffs, bestowing upon me a traditional Vietnamese kiss. “Smell so good,” she announces.

She unburdens my hands of the groceries. I watch her waddle away, feet splayed outward like a duck, flip flops stirring up the red soil. My mom and uncle walk in front of me. He has his arm around my mom’s shoulder. He is shirtless and with his free hand picks at a mosquito bite on the back of his neck until it bleeds.

My aunt hangs the pig torso from a hook above the kitchen sink. She then moves to the cutting block and begins her work on the duck. Her strokes are precise. She wields the butcher knife with the authority of a Quentin Tarantino heroine. She shoos away the flies that come buzzing around the sweet salty meat. Sometimes she bends her knees, one arm reaching for her flip flop like a cowboy about to draw in a spaghetti Western. The flies are smart. They flee at the mere gesture.

My uncle’s calloused hands pour tea with a refinement of the surgeon he was before the war. My tea cup is white porcelain with a pink bud on the bottom. It looks like a rose petal shivering beneath the liquid. It is exquisite except for the brown ring inside the rim that won’t come off even when I scratch it with my fingernail. I edge it over to show my mom the stain. The tea spills over the lip. She scowls at me and then kicks me under the table all the while apologizing franticly to my uncle. She is, however, gracious enough to swap cups with me.

My uncle says, “Welcome home!” and lifts his tea cup.

After they exchange the usual formalities, my mom says, “You wrote last time about Persimmon retiring soon? And how is her toy poodle?”

He says, “Her brother Litchi had to adopt the poodle. Persimmon passed in the spring.”