Mom's With Us

This is from my best friend Tâm Thành. I called her mom Má. Now she calls my mom Mom. 

I have known Trân and her mom, Ms. Kim Tước, since I was eleven or twelve years old. Trân and I went to high school together from 6th to 12th grade and we always sat next to each other in the front row of the classroom because we were both …short. I used to go to her house, which was a very nice bookstore. I bet her mom read every book in there because she was so intelligent. Trân used to come to my house, too. We cooked together, played together, and she called my mom "Má." So today, I would like to call your mom "Mom." Is that okay?

I left South Vietnam by plane just a few days before the communists took over in 1975, and Trân and her family left a few days later by boat. Like a miracle, we reunited months later in a refugee camp in Arkansas. From that time on, we have stayed in touch. I have seen Trân, her mom, and her family several times over the years. Last year, I went to Austin and met her mom. Every time she saw me, she would recite Sino-Vietnamese poems. Although she and I were never Facebook friends, she often jumped into my conversations with my friends to leave comments—showing just how sharp she was.

Today, Trân wants to celebrate the life of her mom. I know she is feeling very sad right now, and Mom would like me to read this poem especially for you.

Đừng đứng khóc bên nấm mồ của mẹ
Mẹ không ở trong mồ; mẹ có ngủ đâu con.
Mẹ là cả một ngàn cơn gió nhẹ,
Là những óng ánh kim cương trên tuyết trong
Mẹ là mặt trời trên lúa vàng chín mọng,
Mẹ là cơn mưa thu thân thương.
Lúc con thức vào buổi mai êm ả
Mẹ là lời thúc giục gọi đàn chim
Khi chúng đang vòng vòng bay thư thả.
Mẹ là ánh sao mềm rọi sáng suốt ban đêm.
Đừng đứng khóc bên nấm mồ của mẹ
Mẹ không ở trong mồ; mẹ có chết đâu con

DO NOT STAND AT MY GRAVE AND WEEP
Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
l am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starshine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry:
I am not there; I did not die.