Pico Iyer, whom I’m still reading, slowly and purposefully, mentions that Vietnam is perhaps one of the loneliest places on earth. At times I agree but for the most part, I don’t. Ever since I can remember, I knew my soul was older than most. Often I catch myself feeling as if I’ve seen the places I’m only seeing for the first time. Hanoi was among them. This place was beguiling. It had an air of nostalgia which gifted me, suddenly, with an accordion of images from a distant past that recalled a number of lives I’m not sure I had lived.
I feel, as most lovers do, that I inadvertently left my heart in this place.
Here, the love of my life whispers forever in my ear. Someone else is taking a photograph and just as the shutter closes and traps in the light, I feel the faint touch of my darling’s lashes against my cheek. It’s November 1972 and the bombs have not fallen yet.