"Ba Noi, Ba Noi tuc ya dee.

Ti dam Ba Noi dee anh pho. Ba Noi, Ba Noi tuc ya dee."
I hold her hand in mines, gripping tightly, but not too tight to cause her pain. Everything was as if it were a painting. Her wily white hair, her soft, smooshy hands, her open mouth and raspy breathing, her heart rate changing constantly in flow with her chest's up and down movements, the machines, the iv cords and tubes, all the electronic whirring and tubes plugged to random places, and nurses talking and people conversing and sterile utensils and white linoleum floors and random jerky foot movements, intercom calls and salmon colored walls, and your uncle speaking in Vietnamese: everything you'd expect to see when you visit your post-stroke 78 year old grandmother in the hospital. What you don't expect to see is your father crying. My father, crying, staring up at the ceiling, blinking back his tears. Getting up from his chair to walk away and wipe his eyes. Moving his glasses from his face and replacing them with his arms. My father, crying.
Why didn't I cry?