Rice and Chayote

"Sweetie, would you run over and call that man over?"
I looked at my mom intently if she really meant it. The man was dirty, ragged, and homeless. And obviously American. I did not recall seeing a sandwich ever in my house. We had just arrived in Houston from Vietnam.

"Go, go... the man is hungry."
I ran.
A few moments later, my mom had placed a hot bowl of rice and chayote squash soup in his hands. There was no bits of chicken, ham, or pork in it. We didn't see a lot of meat in those days.

Was he blonde?
Did he walk with a limp?
How old did he look?

My child's memory retains the whiteness of the rice grains floating serenely in the vegetable broth, the quiet slurping of a satisfied appetite, and the hands that reached out to each other. Dad was at work and like all our neighbors, we had locks and double-locks on our windows and doors. We played in the streets, always in groups of four or more.

I learned generosity in that small bowl of soup.
I discovered fearlessness in a woman's heart.
I was amazed by my mom's tenderness.

Mother's Day is around the corner.
She has already called me yesterday.
I hope I am my mother's daughter.

ps. Photo from http://www.realthairecipes.com/wp-content/uploads/rice-soup.jpg