There are things that I have done,
things that are with me still,
and as a result I carry with me
four of my Vietnamese children;
one a boy of about 8 or so,
and three that you could not determine
their gender,
but children, nonetheless.

They are my children,
because I was the one who chose them,
or maybe I was the one chosen for them —
I will never understand,
but I will forever know that
they belong to me.

They wil remain a weight within my heart
for all of time allotted to me.
It is a way of honoring them, I guess,
as good as any way.
Otherwise they would likely
not be remembered at all.

Why is it always the children who must suffer?

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