My mother’s first name is long forgotten. It was given when she was born in 1961 in the village of Dej Tshuaj, a small village in the Phou Bia Mountains, in the war-ravaged nation of Laos. Her name was changed when she turned three.
It was a cold, stormy day. The two rivers that surrounded the village were flooded by heavy rains. Fog rose from the rivers like smoke from a fire toward the grey clouds that hung low over the tops of the trees. The child was home with her parents. Her mother was pregnant. Her father felt a cold coming on, so he rested near the fire. No one noticed when the girl went missing. By the time the girl’s mother started looking for her, it was close to noon, nearly time for lunch. In a panic, the parents looked throughout the spread of the house, called for her in all its rooms. Outside the swinging bamboo door, they saw no footprints leading away from the house. Still, when it was clear the girl was not inside, her father went out to look for her. The herb garden behind the house was soaked in rain, the earth slippery, and the orchard behind it looked empty. The path leading away from the house was empty. The whole of the village was notified, and everyone started looking for her, on foot and on horseback. Fear gripped the village. What could have happened to the little girl with the thick black hair, the tiny hands and feet? Before dusk, in a light drizzle, a frantic brother found the girl sitting on the banks of a wide puddle far from the house. She squatted at the edge of the dirty water, splashing her reflection with both palms. To his relief and dismay, when he lifted her up, despite the rainy day, the girl was entirely dry.
