The Saigon River glitters under moonlight, reflecting a sampan highway for Viet Cong en route to a firefight with American forces.
(Image courtesy Hadi Zaher)
All night long, her flaxen hair shimmying like disco lights in the full moon, the river showered its blessings on our predicament. In the pitch of the blackout, the candle on the bamboo table flickered wanly; the wick, ungraceful in the gluey wax, wasting away. How grateful I was that a compassionate moon loitered above the upstairs porch while we, the matter and I, a Trini in Nam, deliberated over an argument for spiritual mediation.