We're back, the house is but piles of unpacking, clutter amidst more clutter. The precious documents are put away, the airline luggage tag and boarding passes pigeonholed as mementos. The office call got over, and we're okay for now.  We've gone through the traffic, picked up Mother, but not courage for the day, or an idea, for tomorrow. Grass-cutters drone on, quaint also disturbing, and school office traffic is up ahead, and we are already there, grinding, but the soul still lingers behind, loitering, lurking, sitting in the cafe with a large iced coffee,   sitting in the sands, walking the tree lined avenue, watching  scooterettes with the riders go by, the large Mitsubishis glide by, eating at the ubiquitous Banh Mi stall with the cans of Bia, Ca phe den, and strange meat thinggies,  buying the markets at hanoi ... ... living up  the Sun, the sellers the beachfront ...  

one day we will meet again ... 

 Xin Cam On !! 

As they stared blankly, in dumb misery deepening as they slowly realised all they had seen and all they had lost, a capricious little breeze, dancing up from the surface of the water, tossed the aspens, shook the dewy roses, and blew lightly and caressingly in their faces; and with its soft touch came instant oblivion. For this is the last best gift that the kindly demigod is careful to bestow on those to whom he has revealed himself in their helping: the gift of forgetfulness. Lest the awful remembrance should remain and grow, and overshadow mirth and pleasure, and the great haunting memory should spoil all the after-lives of little animals helped out of difficulties, in order that they should be happy and lighthearted as before.

... from Wind in the Willows,  by Kenneth Grahame,    Rat and Mole are paddling back after picking up the baby otter .