The wind hurled more leaves at them and along with it the screeching laughter of children. The gurgling sounds of joy made Michelle cry even harder. Huong had no choice but to say, “Fine, for a few minutes, but go get cleaned up first.”

She dropped Michelle’s stick into her pink grocery bag. It went in with all the leaves they’d been gathering since sunrise: the grapefruit leaves from a neighbor’s yard, the lime leaves by the pizza parlor, the lemon leaves beside the liquor store, and the eucalyptus leaves from the grounds of the park itself.

Huong settled on a wooden bench on the edge of the playgroud. She sat facing the slide. In front of her, a little boy rode down the aluminum slide. He reminded Huong of her son. He smiled at her when he scooted his butt off the shiny ramp. His dimples were big and fat and perfectly kissable. He was around the age her son would have been if he’d lived.

With only two kids, she didn’t know how she had raised such a strangely selfish child, no consideration, and an ingrate to boot. When she was Michelle’s age, there were so many kids in her family, they were called by numbers. “Girl number Five, go help Six and Seven bathe before dinner.” In South Vietnam, odd numbers were deemed unlucky so the first-born was always designated number two.

Huong was girl number Four in a family of six children. Her boy would have been number Four just like her. If he was still alive she would call him her pinky, a term of endearment for the baby in the family. Every night before putting herself to bed, she wished for his return. Instead she was left with the memory of her baby boy, his still face stark white wrapped in a white sheet, right before she threw him overboard.

Huong wrapped her arms around her shoulders and rocked in place. The healthy take care of the sick. A youth respects his elders. Older siblings take care of younger siblings. She consoled herself by repeating the chant but this time she added a fourth tenant. A parent passes before a child.

Huong freed her arms to wave to the boy. He waved back and then ran inside the climbing dome. When he poked his head out, she waved again. “Hello,” she said and smiled.

He stood before her and scratched his neck. Up close, he was much lighter-skinned than her boy. Her son had been the color of burnt caramel. Her sisters blamed it on the iced coffee she’d craved during her pregnancy. They said, “Thank god it’s a boy because a girl that color would have been cursed.” They called him bé trai café au lait. Four and Six thought the nickname was exceedingly smart. They even fought over who had coined it. Huong paid their bickering no mind. She was too busy loving his delicious smile and that candied skin.

The little boy who stood before her seemed like a sweet child. She didn’t know what to say to him and thought she could give him a gift. She reached for a lemon she’d picked but felt it inappropriate to give sour fruit to a child. Finally, she decided to give him her Vietnamese coin. The xu glinted in her palm.