My mom is packing a suitcase
before her 23-hour flight to Vietnam.
The smooth rolling of its wheels
intertwining with the staccato rhythm of duct tape
echo through the quiet house.
Her veinous hands organize the items
like an engineer assembling the ins and outs
of a teleporting machine
carrying capsules from this portal:
five packs of musky-scented Eagle oil
(for senior relatives constantly battling with arthritis)
two bulky boxes of chocolate
(for the innumerable nieces, nephews, grandnieces, grandnephews and beyond)
and plastic-wrapped bottles of lotion and shampoos
(for their mothers, sisters and aunties).
The destination label lying neatly on the sleek surface
The stretches of words, diphthongs and diacritics —
enigmatic codes carrying the traveller
to a bustling street in Saigon,
with motorcycles trickling down the narrow lanes
alongside which warps
the smoky grilled meat from vendors, all within
the humid city, pulsating day and night.
I could only look at the machine, now wrapped tight with tape,
longing to hop in to reach
the other end of the portal.
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