I sit, watching the sunrise. Steam rises from the industrial park in the distance. Fog. I’m on my way to Brisbane via Doha. The plane leaves the frisky north. A stopover in Doha. Leaving the frozen world for a landscape that looks the same as the mornings in Myanmar, four years ago. Even Doha, last time I was there. Open fields. Fog.
Another phone call from Baba. Three in the morning before my flight. He hands the phone to a doctor.
“What do you know about the situation?”
I pull out my notes. He wants to make sure I understand. I felt quizzed. Intellectuallization as defense.
“Did you give consent?” Are there no adults in the room? “Well, that doesn’t really matter.”
The tone of a person says everything—about the situation, about themselves, about their experience.
Baba’s tone? Apologetic. I’m sorry to disturb you. His first words. I’m at the hospital. Mama has an aneurysm.
「對不起，」他說。I’m sorry. I’m sorry to bother you.
「我跟媽媽上了救護車。」I got on the ambulance with my mom.
「媽媽得了動脈瘤。」Mom has an aneurysm.
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