no soft steamed cassava cakes,

  no sweet smooth jackfruits,

  no fresh young coconut juice.

  And I feel hungry and empty,

  just like the market.

  Foggy Morning

  (May 11)

  The following day,

  Dad is still not back.

  Grandma says,

  Go with me to get Buatong.

  I nod, glad to have time

  alone with my grandmother,

  who is strict,

  but not always as strict as Mom.

  Maybe she will tell me

  what I want to know.

  The morning is foggy,

  and everything feels wet.

  The dewy air hits our faces

  like spray

  from a crashing waterfall.

  Through the fog,

  I spot crooked tree branches

  drooping to the ground.

  I lift them out of the way for Grandma,

  ducking so they don’t

  hit me too.

  Then I turn to her and say,

  Grandma, where will we go

  if we leave Laos?

  Red-Pink Guava

  In case my grandmother

  scolds me

  for asking questions,

  I stare ahead

  at the next mountain.

  My eyes catch

  a flash of red.

  A bird the color

  of red-pink guava flesh

  zips fast between the trees.

  We’re going to Burma,

  Grandma answers.

  Burma? That’s to our west.

  So we’re going west.

  But I still need to know…

  does Burma have mountains like Laos?

  Does Burma have fog in the mornings

  that’s so magical,

  it’s as if we live

  on floating clouds?

  In Burma, will we have a house

  with peach trees

  on top of a hill?

  Will we roll

  down

  down

  down

  this hill under a peaceful blue sky?

  I want to ask Grandma all this,

  but a sadness pours

  into the emptiness

  inside me.

  If it’s true we’re really leaving,

  this means a big change

  is coming,

  flying fast

  like that red-pink guava bird.

  I try to blink away

  my sad feelings

  and say

  nothing at all.

  Buatong

  Where’s Buatong?

  I ask after we’ve been walking a long while.

  Grandma points ahead,

  and I hear the booming.

  It sounds like thunder roaring

  seconds before a storm.

  A cloud of dust rises

  over the mountaintops

  like the sun rising at dawn.

  First, I see the tops of their heads,

  their hair flying upward.

  Then, their ears pointing behind them.

  Soon I spot them all,

  a sea of horses

  galloping downhill.

  Their backs catch the light,

  glitter like drops of water.

  Brown horses, gray, black,

  some brilliant white.

  Grandma and I step to the side,

  watch them bolt by

  like they have some important

  place to go,

  racing to see

  who can get there first.

  Buatong! Grandma calls.

  Buatong! I say with her.

  Never Forget

  A brown horse

  the color of slick rooster’s feathers

  pokes his nose out,

  slows to a trot.

  Buatong! Come!

  Grandma whistles.

  He turns in our direction,

  clonks over, hooves

  stomp-stomp-stomping

  the ground.

  Soon Buatong is standing

  before Grandma.

  She strokes his mane,

  pulls a rope from her pocket,

  places it around his neck.

  We turn to go

  as the other horses

  continue on their way.

  They are wild horses,

  but Buatong is not.

  He’s been with my family for years.

  When he’s not with us,

  Buatong stays with these horses

  speeding through the mountains.

  I watch his coat shine in the sunlight and say,

  Grandma, how does Buatong know?

  How does he know to come with us?

  Buatong is smart.

  He plays with his friends,

  but he knows we are his family.

  But how does he remember us, Grandma?

  Family means home.

  When Buatong sees us,

  he knows it’s time to come back,

  for you never forget home.

  Preparing

  (May 13, morning)

  It’s been four days

  since school closed.

  Yesterday, Dad finally sent a telegram.

  A messenger delivered it to our house

  straight from the telegram machine

  inside the army’s office in town.

  Dad’s message was short:

  Returning Tomorrow.

  Everyone Be Ready.

  After she read it,

  Mom didn’t say a word.

  But she started preparing.

  Five silver bars

  four gold necklaces

  three silver bracelets

  thick rolls of Lao cash and handfuls of coins

  all wrapped in different-sized bundles

  in her blue silk scarves from China.

  The rest of the gold jewelry

  and handmade silver Hmong necklaces

  buried by my uncles

  with Grandma’s old gardening shovels

  deep in the ground

  behind our house

  not far from the peach trees.

  Keep Quiet

  Mom tells everyone to pack

  two shirts, two bottoms,

  two pairs of underwear,

  and only one pair of shoes—

  the pair we will wear.

  Can we take Ao Ka?

  Yia asks, petting our dog.

  Can we take our hill?

  says May Ia, sitting in the shade,

  touching the ground.

  Our peaches aren’t ripe yet.

  What about our peach trees?

  What about our house?

  I want to know.

  Nobody answers us.

  Even Grandma is too busy.

  There are many arrangements to make.

  Mom, Grandma, my uncles, and aunties

  discuss what to do

  where to go

  what will happen

  when it’s time.

  Of course,

  they don’t include the kids

  in the talks.

  We’re told to act

  like nothing’s changed.

  We heard many families in town

  are planning to leave too,

  but Mom says

  we can’t talk about it.

  In fact, we’re supposed

  to just keep quiet

  all day.

  I gather my siblings and cousins,

  call Ao Ka,

  take everyone

  to the hillside

  where the grass is swaying

  like green ocean waves

  at my ankles.

  Farmers

  Ao Ka barks

  when voices sound below.

  I peer down the hill.

  A group of farmers

  walks past,

  holding shovels and axes.

  One woman is carrying

  a kawm on her back,

  the woven basket overflowing

  with fresh-picked vegetables.

  Many Hmong families farm,

  but not mine.

  Both my grandmothers farmed,

  but I’ve never even visited

  a farm before.

  I admire farmers.

  Using their hands,

  they can make something

  grow and bloom,

  something useful,

  helpful,

  beautiful.

  I hope

  after we leave,

  I can do the same

  with my peach seeds.

  My Brother

  Me first!

  Yia yells when we reach the hilltop.

  He races forward

  drops to his side

  and rolls down.

  My brother is brave (like Dad)

  strong (like Mom)

  and adventurous

  (like I dream of being).

  Of my four siblings,

  Yia is closest to me in age.

  We understand each other

  by speaking with our eyes

  and the faces we make.

  Yia is the only boy in my family

  and treasured by all the adults

  for being a boy.

  I treasure him too—

  for being my little brother.

  My Sisters

  Me next!

  May Ia whispers so softly

  I can barely hear her.

  She doesn’t run like Yia,

  but walks with slow, careful steps

  and rolls down with her arms

  crossed at her chest.

  May Ia is small and smart

  for a five-year-old,

  though she hasn’t started school yet.

  She’s the best at hopscotch, jacks,

  and jumping rope

  made from braided rubber bands.

  My next sister Good Xai

  doesn’t roll. She’s too young.

  On rainy days, I slide down the hill

  holding her in my lap.

  Today, she sits by my feet.

  Good Xai is well-behaved

  for a two-year-old.

  She never gives us trouble.

  Her name is really Xai,

  but Dad calls her Good Xai,

  so now everyone calls her Good Xai.

  Baby Round Moon,

  the youngest in the family,

  can’t walk yet, so she can’t roll either.

  I hold her on my hip.

  She looks up at me

  with curious eyes.

  Though I still carry

  that heavy emptiness

  the way I’m carrying her,

  I can’t help smiling.

  She has thin baby hair

  that always falls to the side

  and all you can ever see

  is her forehead.

  My Cousins

  I’ve taken care

  of each of my cousins

  since the day they were born.

  Fue, Chee, Tong, Hli, Mee, and Pai

  are all cheerful and adorable.

  Pai and Tong are five years old.

  Hli is four, Chee and Mee are three,

  and Fue is two.

  Pai rolls, then Tong.

  The rest wait with Good Xai.

  They’re also too young

  and too little

  to roll down the hill

  just yet.

  Down, Down, Down

  After they come back up,

  Yia and May Ia

  take Round Moon from me

  and watch the youngest kids.

  Ao Ka stays with them,

  helps keep an eye

  on all the little ones too.

  Now it’s my turn to go

  down

  down

  down

  the hill.

  Then I climb up

  and get in line

  to roll again.

  We each take turns rolling

  and climbing

  and rolling

  and climbing.

  I start to forget

  my worries.

  Just a little.

  It’s late afternoon

  when I hear the roar of a jeep—

  an army jeep!

  I’m dizzy but laughing

  as I run to the house.

  The sun glides

  behind the mountains,

  turning the blue sky

  persimmon.

  Somewhere, a falcon calls out,

  its cries echoing

  across the jungle.

  On the road through the trees,

  I see the jeep.

  He’s in his

  green army uniform

  wearing his red beret.

  Dad is home.

  Dad

  My father

  parks the jeep,

  hops out,

  black combat boots

  hitting the dirt.

  Usually, when he comes home,

  Dad is laughing,

  greeting everyone,

  showing how glad

  he is to be back.

  But today,

  I see something different

  in his forehead, his eyes.

  His face is quiet,

  filled with

  only worry.

  Dad! I hurry to him.

  He pats my head

  and I smile,

  even though in my stomach

  questions

  twist and whirl together

  like black gnats

  swarming the air.

  My biggest one—

  are we really leaving?

  Listening

  (May 13, afternoon)

  On his tiptoes

  with fingers curled

  at the window’s edge,

  Yia peeks into the house, whispers,

  I can’t see anything!

  I’m taller than you.

  I can see more!

  I protest.

  Yia scoots over

  but not far enough

  to make space for me.

  I crouch down, press my ear

  under the window instead,

  hoping to catch what I can.

  When Dad arrived,

  all the kids rushed home to see him,

  but Mom shooed us away

  like waddling geese

  blocking her path

  so he could speak

  to the adults undisturbed.

  Dad’s voice is strong, firm.

  The communists are taking

  command of the government.

  The communists?

  That’s why Teacher Xiong

  was so afraid.

  I move closer.

  There is talk the Americans

  have secret planes to evacuate

  the general and Hmong military leaders

  and their families.

  I stand straight.

  Our Hmong general

  worked closely

  with the Americans.

  If the general is leaving,

  this means…

  something

  very

  bad

  is coming.

  These secret planes will leave Laos soon.

  I take a step back.

  We must catch the planes.

  I turn to Yia.

  For those who don’t go

  could be captured or killed.

  Communism

  All these years, this is what

  the war was about.

  They say

  communists believe

  a country must be fair and equal.

  Everyone must share everything.

  But what ends up happening is

  not everybody gets enough,

  and many people

  get close to nothing—

  no food, money, or land—

  which means things are

  not fair or equal

  at all.

  Then anyone who doesn’t agree

  can be punished,

  sent to reeducation camps to learn.

  Usually, no one sees

  or hears from them

  ever again.

  This is why Teacher Xiong

  was too scared to say it,

  why Mom told us not to talk about it,

  why Dad looks so worried.

  This is why we have to

  have to

  have to go.

  Shaking Arms

  My eyes water

  and my nose stings.

  I’m crushing garlic and peppers,

  helping Mom and my aunties

  cook dinner.

  Since the morning market had no food,

  Mom bought one chicken

  and one duck from our neighbors.

  My aunties paid for vegetables and herbs

  from the farmer down the road.

  Now they’re chopping meat,

  slicing vegetables,

  boiling water in one pot,

  heating oil in the other.

  I try to hide my shaking arms

  from my mother.

  She doesn’t know Yia and I

  listened to Dad earlier.

  Naib, let’s go visit Uncle Nao’s family,

  Dad says to me.

  Whenever Dad calls me “dear,”

  I feel as if the sun

  is shining onto my face

  and the entire world

  is warm and happy and safe.

  This time,