Shoes left on the doorstep. 

small squeaky and pink, 

worn out leather with a stink,

Dominating sequined heels. 

Chucks ravaged with holes. 

A family gathering. 

“Chúc Tết” mom says, 

weathered hands take mine, 

grandmas, aunties, and các cụ bestow kind words, 

praise washing over me like the hypnotising fragrance of hoa mùi già.

I struggle to form words. 

my Vietnamese broken, 

awkward,

other.

I watch.

a flurry of red envelopes are exchanged,

nieces, nephews, daughters, and sons feign gratitude

their hungry eyes counting up the value.

My pockets, 

Empty.

The meal, 

six bowls, 

six plates.

The only light.

I lock eyes with bánh chưng. 

imagining my chopsticks sink into the pillowy rice,

the decadent pork awaits, hugged by a luxurious coat of mung bean.

We all say “Chúc Tết”

and begin the feast.