After a Vietnamese folktale told at tết

You have heard that we turned into the kitchen gods because the god of heaven pitied us for our tragedy. You believe we warm your hearths because we burned to be together in the afterlife. But the truth is not a straight line. Listen.

The coldest night of the year, and his skin stings like ice. Lying together, our bellies are too hollow to meet. We hold each other, knowing love cannot heat a house or soothe our stomach pangs. I suck on the flavor of his tears. The next morning, he takes half the rations and promises to return with money. I watch him walk away, his body like a slender reed in the sun. The jungle soon swallows him whole. Weeks, months, years are empty of fire and husband.

A travelling storyteller arrives one evening at our village. Broad of shoulder, lute in hand, he plucks tales—and the one of a woman turned to stone for want of a husband who never returns. It strikes a stone in my chest. I step away from the fire, bring water to my mouth, thoughts on the boil. The storyteller takes his place among the audience, as villagers take turns to entertain us. I remain in the dark so he cannot see me. A neighbor nudges me toward the light. Sing for us, Nhi. We haven’t heard you sing in so long. You have such a beautiful voice. I sing the first song that comes to me: of lovers longing to be together. My wedding song. I sing to him. Later, he stays by the fading heat of the embers, invites me to sing a duet with him tomorrow night. The duet becomes our wedding song.

A year later, on the hottest day of the year, at dinner preparation, my first beloved walks through the door. Chopsticks fall; I sway and reach for the wall. A ghost? His hair is grey, the lines between his brows deep. Is it you? A nod. I thought you were dead. He travelled south, he says, labored on a farm, lost his money to thieves. Too shamefaced to return empty-handed, he worked harder to regain the lost sum. Memories of my new husband stir, yet there is not the time to settle my mind. I must hide the husband in front of me. I act on my first idea, and rush him outside, pushing him into a nearby haystack. My other beloved returns from the fields. Thoughts roil; I can scarcely eat. The smell of smoke snakes its way into the house: the haystack on fire! Boys flee in the distance, smoke and flames warping the sight of them. I run—and run into the haystack.

Stories recount the three of us dying in the fire out of penance, protection, remorse. But when I pulled him out of the fire, his breath was warm. My second husband arrived with buckets of water. This is how I found myself with two husbands, how we did not have to die to be together. Believe me.