She sits low in her boat, legs folded like old paper,
the hull rocking gently on the Mekong’s brown breath,
sunlight glinting off the water in slow pulses.
On her head: a non lá—worn, frayed, the rim patched with green thread.
On her face: time.
Bà Lan, sixty-seven, fruit seller, mother of six, widow of a fisherman,
holds a cell phone to her ear with one hand,
the other gripping a long wooden paddle resting across her lap.
Her boat is filled with mangoes, rambutans, and dragonfruit
tucked into shallow baskets—color splashed across wood darkened by years of river.
She talks softly but firmly in southern Vietnamese,
tone rising and dipping like the tide.
“Ờ, má khỏe. Nhưng mày đừng quên uống thuốc đó nghe chưa.”
Yes, I’m fine. But don’t forget to take your medicine, you hear?
It’s her youngest daughter on the line. In Saigon now.
Working in a café.
Sending money when she can.
Missing meals when she can’t.
Bà Lan nods as she listens, eyes never leaving the flow of boats around her.
A tourist barge floats by.
A child on the shore waves.
She waves back absently, phone still pressed to her cheek,
non lá tilted just enough to shade the curve of her tired mouth.
She has lived on this river since girlhood—
learned to row before she could write,
gave birth twice in the boat,
lost her husband during a flood,
sold fruits to pay for school uniforms and funerals.
But now—here she is—
a woman in a conical hat,
rocking on ancient water,
speaking to her child through satellites.
She ends the call with a soft “Ừ, má thương con.”
Yes, Mama loves you.
Then she slips the phone into a plastic pouch,
picks up her paddle,
and rows on,
the Mekong unfolding in front of her like a conversation with no end.