My uncle passed away unexpectedly this past weekend. He was my mom’s older and only brother. As Vietnam entered its 4th week of covid lockdown, my mom was not able to see her brother for the last time before the burial. She was stricken with grief and regret. His unexpected passing broke her in ways that resemble the shades of pain when her mother, my grandmother passed. I called her on Saturday only to the sounds of her wailing. A wail, so guttural that it transported me back to the bedside of my grandmother’s lifeless body where my mother crumbled next to me howling “Ôi Mạ ơi”. I held my grandmother’s hand. It was cold. But her skin was still soft and textured with melasma patches. My mother wanted to be with her brother for the last time, to hold his hand even if it’s cold. Blood still runs deep even if the body has turned blue. 

My mother gave me my cousin’s phone number so I could say my condolences. He face-timed me and asked if I wanted to see my uncle for the last time and I agreed. He turned the phone and there my uncle was. Lifeless but dressed in his Sunday’s best. He looked handsome and statuesque. His broad nose stood out as it always proudly did. Growing up, he always told me that having such a nose was a sign of wealth and good fortune. But my uncle had very little of both. He was a lifelong educator and a pridefully devout Catholic who chose his faith over Communist party membership. He was demoted from a high school principalship that he deservedly earned after many working years. He had struggled until last weekend. As I took one last look at his lifeless body, I wondered the depth of my mother’s grief and regret. 

I too felt something. Remote grief. It was like a tidal wave crossing thousands of ocean miles and crashing violently into shore only to recede and thrash right back. And just like with every other pain I’ve ever felt, I put it in a box and neatly filed it away. But this time, I sat with it a little while longer before turning in another shelved shock.