South China Sea, 1980.

A small fishing vessel is leaving Cam Ranh Bay for the last time, entering the expansive waters of the South China Sea. On board, my mother is holding me and my brother closely inside the cabin, while my father is on the deck with the other men. It is dark and damp and we are cramped with the other passengers, huddled together in the common bond of sudden vagrancy. She was a young mother with all the hopes and dreams of a better life for her children, as it is the duty of a mother to posess, but on this day, she is stateless; a refugee, a fugitive, a criminal, a subversive, an outlaw. It is an absurd world in which such titles could be attached to this tiny, fragile, and loving woman. To me, she is still just Mother; the same woman that held me when I was sick; held me when the ferry boat began to sink into that cold dark sea early this very morning; held me when she thought it would be our last moment together.

The boat was mended after some chaotic scrambling, but the fear that persisted permeated the early morning air with a thickness that could almost be tasted. The impossible journey proceeded. Everything she had ever known is slowly and certainly evaporating into a memory with the ripples behind the tiny boat. She would have to immediately start the process of relinquishing that life, for this journey has no return and no absolute destination. This purgatory between the death of the old life and whatever the wheel of fate delivers would be full of pure torment. She has no guarantee that this world will ever appear normal again. It was an impossible gamble with the highest stakes.

We drifted on the open seas for a seemlingly endless amount of time. Of course, being in the belly of that vessel, the mind loses track of time and place, especially when it is dark, the sea is churning, and the air is salty and stale with fear and sickness. The daylight hours bring a small relief. At least, then, we could get some bearings and a better sense of our circumstance, even if that circumstance was desperately floating on a speck in an otherwise empty ocean. This was our struggle for 800 long miles, along with relentless thirst from the salty air, hunger, and the uncomfortable knowledge that the end was always lurking.

This is the story of my mother, who willingly sacrificed herself to give me everything. This is one story in a sea of countless stories of mothers who courageously leave everything behind and endure untold miseries for the sake of their children. These stories are not so rare in this world, sadly. These are the sacrifices and true heroisms of all refugee mothers throughout the world. Fortunately, this story ends well and I get to visit my mother in her flower garden on any given day. Not all of the stories end this wonderfully. This world can be an ugly and unfair place. We are the lucky ones, indeed.

The debt I owe to my mother is immeasurable. I can only honor her by living the life she graciously gave to me with goodnesss and purpose. I choose to celebrate and cherish this life with not one precious moment squandered.

I am thankful for the time I get to spend with her while she tends to her pretty flowers; each one carefully nurtured and brought to life by her hands. I am grateful for having been shown love in its true essence and the opportunity to give love wholeheartedly in return. Today and everyday, I can say simply, succintly, and honestly;

I love you, Mom.