Look at what all these years have done to your hands. The hands of a man born on two shorelines, the hands of an artist and engineer who makes knives pirouette on stained bamboo boards. You still season the chicken with ginger and sarcasm, and your pho reminds us that all love needs is bones and water. I’ve tried writing the steps down, but what recipe could ever contain you? Who could hope to recreate what you have touched? God has made his attempts, but the angel you once held wants nothing more than your hands again.