Holding my breath, I listen to silence. It speaks the same language as memory. The language they speak does not require air. Without air, without sound, their tongue will die.

My great aunt wipes her eyes with a used tissue. She's not crying. She waits for a translator. No one is coming. No one could tell her her tongue had been dying decades ago.

A hollowness rings like a bell. My mother answers it in French. She speaks on command. The French applaud her, treat her with cà phê and sô-cô-la. Those words give her déjà vu, reminds her of her mother.

My father's words were made in Viet Nam. My ears were made in America. His breath is too short to reach my waning hearing. The bridge has been breaking. We will miss each other.