It was always summer at the creek

Mom, am I still young?

Can I dream for a few months more?

Mitski 

You had escaped The Nap. Cradled in your mother’s arms, you draw war plans and tactics to break out and escape to the creek. Like inmates escaping their sentences. Like mermaids longing to return home.

You nudged your cousin’s arm. Together, you both climbed out of bed and tiptoed to the steel rod gates, rusted with time. You had left it unlocked before The Nap, unbeknownst to your mothers. You held back your giggles with each other palms and off you went. Your cousin Minh has been called Jackfruit or Mit since birth. Being 1 year older than you were, Mit knew how to ride a bicycle back then. You often looked at him in envy. You made him agree to be on foot to the stream, passing your grandmother’s grave, down the path riddled with water buffalo feces and paved with mango trees. You chased each other. Your screams replace those of morning birds. The sun peaked, and your shadows followed under your steps.

To get to the creek, you have to go past civilization. You have to go beyond the houses, cattle, and bikes then take a left. When you see a maze of plants whose leaves look like swords, stop. Trust the you from yesterday and follow the path you left for yourself. If the road started to become smaller, push forward. The patch would open to you like the gates of a palace. Sun would shine without a roof. Grass rose above the ground, higher than any city garden can produce. The water wheel saluted you. Crickets left holes, inviting you to pour water down and capture them. There was no path to walk on. Your feet went where they desired.

You didn’t know when or how the water wheel was erected. You had been at the creek since you could walk and it had been there for longer than you had. It stood like a monument, and it was bigger than anything your brain could ever comprehend. You never saw a Pyramid of the Eiffle, but they couldn’t be as big as the wheel. The wheel sprayed out rain, reflecting mini rainbows. It drove the stream. Maybe people put it there for leisure, like how some put lion statues in front of their gate, you thought to yourself. To you and Mit, it was a lighthouse. It called you home.

You thought of Mary Lennox, or Alice, maybe both. This was not the world you usually lived in. Time stopped for the short three months you spent in this small mountainous province. Your world from September to May was a cycle of school, books, cram evening classes, and boys drama. You didn’t have to catch the 5 AM bus to school and return home exhausted. You didn’t have to roll your uniform skirt up to conform to what other girls at school were wearing. You had to escape all. Your desire for an air conditioner was only a small price you paid for this freedom. You know you would have to get back to them, but it’s not now. Not here. Here, the sun is always scorching, the grass is always green, and the water is always cold to the bones. It was always summer at the creek.

There were endless possibilities for a six-year-old and a seven-year-old at the stream. You could watch a praying mantis fly from one blade of grass to another. You challenged each other to catch one. You would go investigate what flowers sprouted, but your cousin wasn’t usually interested. You could dig up some dirt for worms, then wash your hands down the stream. You could go down the quiet water to find swarms of tiny silverfish and watch them gather around your legs. You could stand from a small cliff and watch the breaking point of the creak. You were enamored with the waves and how they looked like Grandfather’s white hair on the smooth rocks. When the water is kind, you could get down, flip a rock over, and peel off the snails. Of course, you will set them free.

Sometimes you would get busted and dragged home by the ears. Both of you wondered how adults found their way into the creek. You and Mit remind each other that adults only ruined the magic of the creek and the gates were simply too narrow for their adult bodies. This was a holy site, and you were the only two worshippers. Some might have come before you, but you have received the torch. 

You assured your frowning mother that you didn’t go down the deep water, where the current was too violent for you. You already knew how to swim because your father used to make you go to the pool daily.  He said a kid born into a lineage of rivermen must have had swimming in their blood. You bit down the gulp of air and threw yourself into the chlorine water. You graduated to a still pond then the big river. You were safe. There was no reason your mother should be worried. 

Except there might be one. Your uncle Chien, Mit’s father and your mother’s younger brother, took all the cousins to the river once. You didn’t bring your swimsuit or your goggles so you watched the boys take off their shirts and jump into the water. Uncle Chien laughed, you were only a child, why embarrassed about curves you have yet to grow into? So you jumped into the uncharted current, clothed, where water lily leaves billowed above the water. You hid under a floating bed of branches and leaves. You let your limbs go. As you watched the sunlight find its way between the cracks of the plants from beneath the water, you were oblivious to Uncle Chien’s desperate calls. The plant bed hid you so well he thought you were washed away to the main river. When he saw you swam out of the bed on all fours like a wet dog, he cried with relief. You were fine, but you started to wonder why adults always overreact to everything. Must be the genetics shared between him and your mother. His panic reminded you of the time when you were three, a drawer full of clothes fell on you, and your muffled calls to your mother resulted in her panic. You were fine. At that age, you didn’t know you were precious to so many people.

After all, you and Mit were here for the summer vacation. The creek is still the creek, yesterday, today, or tomorrow. You always have the creek and each other to rely on. Even when you could barely see each other back in the city. 

In fourth grade, this summer vacation lasted a year for both of you. Mit spent a year with your family and away from his. His mother Lan got into some trouble with money, owing from a gang, and was on the run. Aunt Lan used to call you “Pup” instead of your name. She made amazing rice noodle soup and you loved spending time with her and Mit for a sleepover as a pre-schooler. Mit was her only son, so she treated you like a daughter, combing your hair, tying barrettes and ribbon into your braids, or gifting you all sorts of clothes. You thought she was beautiful and her good looks must have transferred to Mit. She owned a bridal shop that wasn’t doing too well, leading to her inability to pay those people back. Uncle Chien didn’t tolerate her staying with him and Mit, so she ran away. Mit lived with us, in case the gang decided to search for him. They found your house once and camped outside before your mother got home and denied knowing Aunt Lan. She said Mit was her son. They left and never returned.

Mit transferred to your elementary school and went to school every morning with you and your mother. You bought new school supplies together. You slept in the same bed. You studied in the same room, with two tables. Suddenly, every night was a sleepover. You caught a glimpse of what it might look like if you had a twin. You fought daily but then made up and talked shit about your school to each other before bed. You played tricks on your mother, once exchanging clothes and pretending to be each other. Your mother bought it. He made you sit still while he tried to braid your hair like his mother did. His chubby fingers pulled out too many strands during the process, but it felt nice to have your hair braided. Your naive head had yet to grasp what really happened but somehow, you think Mit did. His mother went no contact while your mother was still in front of you. He went from being a prince to being a guest in someone else’s house. You caught him texting his mom and crying once, but you kept your mouth shut. You were scared this reality would end if you dared to mention Aunt Lan. You hoped he would stay here forever.

Uncle Chien had an affair in 2008 when Mit was six. You were not allowed to hear the gossip but you knew it was on a business trip. He fell in love and had another son with a woman, who was kind enough to not come forward and demand child support until their son was at least 4 or 5. After Aunt Lan resolved her debt, Uncle Chien filed for divorce. The next spring, he brought this woman and their son to introduce to the whole family. 

You never liked her. She was too nice to be a stepmother. You also didn’t like how the aunties and uncles treated her and her son, with open arms, while they looked at Mit as if he was a bastard. No one condemned Uncle Chien, and you thought it was ridiculous. That Lunar New Year, Mit and you sat in the same house where your Grandfather died the year prior and had a long talk about the whole thing. You wish you could take him to the creek and be children again. Adults suck and they get away with everything. 

You went to the creek every year until you were thirteen and Mit fourteen. Mit started growing stubbles and his voice dense, while you had been waiting for your period for years. You had always been a late bloomer and you felt envious, just like when you were nine. Why did he have to get everything before you? Couldn’t you at least get something? Your limbs grew long and the adventure to the creek shortened. Mit started thinking about the creek as a childish joke. He wasn’t appalled that the creek started to dry up. He had become an adult. Again, before you. He joined the adults in their conversation. He had a phone and was constantly texting someone. You suspected he had a girlfriend and ratted to your mother. She didn’t feel the same intrigue you had but assured you he would receive The Talk. In the meantime, you went to the creek alone. You were too grown for discreet missions to escape your mother’s arms. You just went.

You and Mit grew apart. He thought of you as a child who clung to the past. He gave you condescending waves of laughter about how you escaped your life by going to the creek. You vowed you would never hang out with him again. He used to be your favourite cousin but not anymore. He didn’t know the creek like you did. Only you were left to guard this whimsical oasis. The gate would soon be too small for him. You could love this place all for yourself.

In the spring of your seventh grade, fourteen days after the Lunar New Year, your Grandfather died. He was your last grandparent, and now both your parents had become orphaned. You stood in the corner, numbed, and watched all eight of your aunts and uncles wail. Your mother didn’t cry much because her mind was so occupied with the funeral. You tried to make yourself shed at least one tear but failed. He wasn’t the warm and loving grandfather you used to read in books, who shielded their grandchildren from the wrath of their children. He was barely taller than you as age weighed down on his back and he spent the last years of his life having the nurse remind him of the names of his children. You were fond of him but couldn’t deny your indifference. Your eyes glanced at Mit, who said quietly in the corner with his head down. He had permed his hair and put golden highlights in it the year before. Under the fluorescent light, tinted green from the teal paint of your Grandfather’s home, his hair looked sad. You suspected he was closer to Grandfather and was going through it, so you bow down too. 

Your Grandfather was the glue between his children, and with him gone, they scattered like birds. Your mother and Uncle Chien stopped visiting every summer, each time shorter than the last. Your summer took on the same routine as it did in the school year. You reserved a special hatred for the summer English grammar class you had to spend three hours weekly for. There wasn’t any air conditioning and sixty kids crammed themselves in a classroom the size of your bedroom. Heat swallowed you whole. Oftentimes, you looked out to the window where the ferocious sun burned the asphalt on the road. The sun in this city was cruel, and you missed the sun at the creek. As if scared of this thought, you abandoned the fantasy and ducked your head back into the textbook.

You speculated all that hard work in those tiny classrooms must have paid off when the stone-cold Embassy officer told your mother you were approved for a student visa for high school in America. You managed to make him smile out of the long line of rejected candidates. The simple trick, you cracked a joke about how his New England hometown must feel so different from Hanoi, your hometown. You ran your mouth and it got you a prize. Your mother didn’t speak a word of English. Nonetheless, she wore her best dress, the bright yellow one with hummingbirds and blossoms embroidery, to take you to the interview. You felt grateful she did and you held her hand all the way home. You held her hand until she let yours go at the airport. 

America was nothing like Hanoi, if anything, it looked more like where the creek was. You regretted cracking that joke about New England, knowing you would be sent to Massachusetts. Your mother asked over the phone where exactly you were. You didn’t know either. You asked your schoolmates who were from New Jersey and New York for an estimate. The next time she called, you told her you were three hours away from New York by car. It was green everywhere you went, with one-story houses made out of red bricks. The first time it snowed, you felt like the first time you went to the creek. The second time, you fell on the icy stairs to your Intro to Theater class. You decided you hated snow.

That year, you also decided to hate many things. You hated the way kids looked at you and your friends when you spoke your mother tongue too loud. You hated the way your name sounded in your teacher’s mouth. You also hated seeing families hugging each other after theater productions, on move-out days, and at graduations. You watched moms and dads pack up their children’s belongings and load them on a pick-up truck, while you prepared another cardboard box by yourself. You wished you had families here. You did, but he was in sunny Austin.

You were not the first kid in the family to go to the States for high school. Mit did the same thing a year earlier. At that point, you had given up on comparing yourself to him and accepted that you would always be one step behind him. You started texting back and forth, went to New York together for Spring break, and remained in contact ever since. He used to tell you how much he hated his public high school and his hosts. They were unkind, elderly teachers who didn’t let him hang out with friends past 9 PM or let him make Vietnamese dishes. He missed the food at home desperately, the same way you did. In return, you introduced him to your friends at your private all-girl school, knowing he loved girls’ attention. You planned your trips and promised to find each other at home. You never mentioned your childhood, in fear of his rejection. It was hard to reconnect with an old friend, but it was harder to keep this connection. You both grew into an age where solidarity meant more than any bickering you had. You felt grateful he was there and again, hoped he would stay forever.

Until Mit dropped out of high school after the pandemic.

First, they thought it was the money, then they knew it was him. Criticism fell from everywhere. Everyone questioned why he dropped out of high school, even you. When Uncle Chien made it clear that it was not because he couldn’t afford to send him to school in the States anymore, Mit was under constant scrutiny. Aunties and Uncles, including your parents, felt pity for him. He has always been a clever kid growing up, why waste his potential then? So he disappeared from every family gathering. You grew tired of defending him in your head. He slowly became estranged from you again. You wondered what he was doing from time to time, but he was nowhere to be found. You knew of his adventures because you followed him on Instagram, not because he was excited to share with you. At least you know he finished his high school degree at a trade school at home. One summer, when you returned home for your grandmother’s anniversary, he drove you back to the city. He told you that it was because he thought college was not what he wanted. He didn’t want to put Uncle Chien through the financial burden when he didn’t want school. It felt like you could trust him again and he had always been your favorite cousin. You trusted that he would make do with whatever he had and that you both would go down different paths. It was the summer of 2022. You have yet to turn 19, and Mit turned 20 in July. He would always be one step ahead of you.

After studying for his test for architecture school and failing, Mit renounced that temporary dream completely. He went to another city and made friends, with whom he founded a pool club together. They opened another location after a year of operation and he seemed content with what he was doing now. You met a few times between your breaks from school, and he still looked for you in every family meet-up. You told him you did the same thing. You were his favorite cousin, and he was yours. Mit is now a young man with a business to tend to. You were on track to finish your college degree and follow his footsteps in joining the workforce. You both were so far away from each other, from your shared childhood, and the fights. While aunts and uncles still sometimes brought up his unfinished education, you defended him. Out loud. Mit knew what he was doing. But what about you, a child who clings to the past?

You returned home one summer for your grandmother’s anniversary and found out the creek had disappeared. What remained was a corpse. They took away the water wheel, dumped toxins into the streams, and drowned the fish. You stood, puzzling your distant memory of the water wheel with the gloomy creek. You were six and twenty and every age in between. Sun no longer shone, water no longer glistened, and crickets no longer sang. You were an adult, and adults ruin the magic. Adults don’t see the eternal summer at the creek. Like a mermaid trading her voice for legs,  you left the creek. You willingly shed off yourself as sea foam somewhere on the shore, telling yourself it was part of growing up. But today, you dream of home. You wished you could dream for a few months more.