Observation: A Lower Class Vietnamese Home

On putting him back in his cot, she returns to her machine and, like her husband, slowly withdraws back into the mind numbing cacophony of humming sewing machines. I wonder if they are thinking or if someone merely reached out and pressed an ‘economy mode’ button behind their ears, enabling them to sew quietly without the energy wasting fuss of stress, thoughts or memories. His wife does not or pretends not to notice his lack of appreciation for the food she has prepared him and comes and collects the baby from me. I feel as if I have intruded enough on their private lives, and do not have a desire to see more.

The mother coughs quietly, alleviating my doubts that these may not be living, breathing creatures. Despite the cloth all being the same colour, there are varying degrees of shading according to where the material was in the dying process. Her mouth is a perfect pink rosebud, tickled by the barely visible wisps of a feminine moustache. Their motions are mechanical, robot like, in their appearance. Both faces are blank, unmoving, their eyes not even focused on the work in front of them. His earlier joy seems to have dissipated, and he has receded into his previous monotony, leaving him once again a robot. Oblivious of the cockroach that scuttles in startled surprise across the floor she sets the baby in his high chair and begins, as best she can, to rinse their only plates clean. I also know why she does it for I have known her for a long time.

A thin piping wail emanates from the cot and dutifully the mother goes to pick the baby up.

Balancing her son on her hip, the mother walks to the kitchen to prepare a small lunch. She never complains that times are hard, that she cannot afford clothes or shoes for herself, or that her two eldest children must go without lunch at school.