a collective cluster

by LAURA NGUYEN

layout ZUENA KARIM photographer ETHAN TRAN stylists KADEN GREEN & NOELLE CAMPOS hmua AMBER BRAY & LANE RICE models JANE LIU & LINDSAY GALLAGHER

My family once lived in a vacant house sitting on the corner of University Boulevard. The house was varnished with smooth, wooden floors and a box TV that once almost smothered my sister when she was three. Unfortunate rice grains were hidden underneath the kitchen cupboards, and the third bedroom to the left was rented by an old man we endearingly called ông nội.

In 2005, we packed our bags and upped and moved, and seemingly, so did my memories, too. Fifteen years later, you'd never guess what lived in that house. You'd never miss the silent halls once filled with cheers of celebrating first Christmases in America, of learning how to properly cook a turkey. Of finding Easter egg baskets, and of discovering the many first experiences I dreamingly labeled home.

They faded and faded, with wisps escaping through the cracks in memory lane. As we traveled from Point A to Point B, we became alone. We became distanced from what we once knew. The sprouted seeds my family spent so long nurturing sprinkled and wilted and dried, leaving us with lonely beginnings and hard earth 1,414.6 miles away.

We were soon stuffed into a temporary house with two other families. There was always commotion rampaging under the roof, no matter how big or how small. Home didn't feel like home if it was cramped and unfamiliar, and all I could see was an open road that I no longer knew the name of.

A couple months flew by, and I no longer wanted to preserve. I couldn't picture the faces that I grew up with, nor did I engrain the tiny moments that I swore to remember from back home. I vaguely remembered the first 10 years of my life. It didn't matter; I didn't care. When life decides to take what you've loved and rips the short, short roots of your origins right from beneath your feet, you forget what you really meant to people.

I know that I, along with my sister, am the daughter of an adopted Vietnamese woman who traveled across the world for a loving home when she had none. And we are the daughters of a Vietnamese man who fought tooth and limb to get aboard a ship last-minute to survive the war. But, as I continue to go back through these roots, to comb back from the tree branches and into the trunk, I realize that my parents were just as lost when finding that we, ourselves, were the only home we've known.

My mother hugged me a bit tighter each night. My father smiled the brightest of smiles as if he had it all together. My sister waited each evening beside the corner of the street right where the school bus stopped, so every step I took off the bus wasn't alone. Seemingly, my family nestled itself right where we belonged here: with each other.

We officially planted our seeds into the soil when we bought our forever home the August I began kindergarten. And, as we grew, so did the many workbooks from school on the bookshelves. First, second, third, fourth, fifth grade. Yearbooks piled, art pieces hung, words were scribbled onto aimless pages. Our house became filled with memories of growth, of lessons learned, of love. Photos stacked on shelves, VCRs were made and watched and

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re-watched. And with every spring cleaning, we didn't have the heart to toss these memories away.

Each birthday, Christmas, Valentine's Day, Halloween, and Thanksgiving, the one thing that I woke up for was a single envelope that appeared in the mail. Signed, Uncle Dale and Aunt Janelle. These letters slid into memory boxes and onto walls so we wouldn't ever forget the love scribed to us from a thousand miles away. Rows of letters piled on walls, as did trinkets on our shelves. It became a habit to hang these remembrances where we could, to celebrate, and keep these little pieces of love.

When it came for my time to depart, 150 miles away from the only home I've known, the emptiness crept in. I stared at my college apartment walls all too blank, and the clean slate that I had been provided. It crept in on me — the insignificance, the dread. Would I lose these memories, too? Would I have to now plant my own seeds, as my parents once did?

Each morning, I wanted to remember. I wanted to remember the smiles that would eventually wrinkle lines at the age of 18. I wanted to submerge myself into each and every lesson those who have graced my existence have given me. I wanted to wake up remembering that I'm loved, that I have grown, that I'm not alone.

Eventually, my room became a museum featuring a collection of memories dedicated and mapped into my mind. I place gifts of love notes, photos, and trinkets on my walls to remind me of the warmth I experience when I am alive, when I am whole.

I stick pencils in the coffee can I bought from my favorite supermarket. It takes me back to the dim lighting and the warm smiles of the grocery store owner with just a clank of the wood hitting the metal.

Three years ago, I handed a beautiful being a stick of gum to lure her into being friends with me. Little did I know, on my 21st birthday, I would hang up a canvas of the moon, stars, and flowers that she painted for me. It sits in my bedroom, to the right of my office, so I can sit and stare and think of it.

Stamps, postcards, and ornaments from friends who’ve traveled the world are tacked onto canvases and framed up. In a way, it makes me feel like I’ve traveled with them across the borders and oceans they’ve explored.

A house plant made its way on my window sill this morning. I don't like plants, and I've never had a fickle of a green thumb. But when my dearest friend so earnestly showed me her healthy fig, I couldn't help but shuffle a random succulent into my room in hopes of replicating some semblance of life within these walls.

I carry these items and knowledge with me as if they were precious, priceless seeds, tucking them underneath the soil I would

like to call home. Clutter stacks against walls as photos and artworks are stamped through thumbtacks, stuffed animals fill up the gaps between my bed and the wall. These clusters, organized yet not, are some semblance of my life and the beings I've chosen to define it. Yes, I've re-planted my roots, but I may never call them my own. My legacy rests with the lives that have touched mine.

I want to remember this feeling of having homes, of friends resting safely in my heart and myself in theirs. I want to lull myself to sleep knowing that they exist and will forever exist. That they have fostered these fresh roots and submerged them six feet into the ground where my previous homes once lived.

As I rest my eyes in the middle of the night, I smile, knowing that I am not of one being but of all others. Thank you for being my cluster, thank you for bringing me peace. ■