"You know, Achilles, war is old men talking and young men dying!" (Odyssey, Troy).
July last year, at Truong Son Cemetery, a little girl saw me crying and asked me: "Auntie, who are you looking for?"
I told her I was looking for my young uncle's grave, who was from Hanoi, who was born in 1948 and died in 1968, unknown place. I told her I hoped, like my grandmother, like my father, he should be somewhere here, in Truong Son Cemetery. I could not find his grave until then.
They, about 10 kids, ran around looking for me while I stood there and cried like crazy, unexpectedly.
I missed the way my grandma cried each time she washed the pan and deshed the water out to the yard and swore at the American, all at the same time. We never know where my uncle stayed.
The kids of course could not find his grave at the Cemetery. He's somewhere else, two days before his 20th. Wars are just old men talking and young men dying.
