"Maybe this will give people a chance to look at their lives and see if they are actually happy doing what they've been doing." - Jonah's grandmother
The first thing I remember when I wake up is the drive to grandma's on Saturdays. We did this for almost the first 18 years of my existence and sometimes I force myself to dream that memory. The drive itself was always filled with aromatic Vietnamese pop songs and my mother constantly acting as my father's GPS even though we always took the same route.
I've thought of this moment for the past few weeks not because I have a fixing to go home, but because I don't want to forget.
And like a lot of events currently happening, I'm holding onto to every moment that can develop a smile that's on the verge of extinction.
At my grandma's house, everyone had their place; men in the kitchen gambling, women in grandma's room gossiping, and the kids in the living room glued to the television. The only thing that connected us was the billowing smoke that came from the mouths of the men.
I started smoking unconsciously then and still continue to this day. It's the longest relationship I've ever had and like in some relationships, very toxic.
But still, it's the longest so that still counts as success, right?
A decade and some years later, the gambling has no takers, the gossiping has stopped, and the television was gone. There's still a faint smell of smoke, but that's really just coming from my grandpa's shrine which funny enough, at the end of the incense there's a cigarette that desperately needs to be ashed.
My grandpa was an incredible man, one that survived so many experiences including the Vietnam War and multiple surgeries due to his much-abused body.
I never knew what he did before Canada, but what I do remember is the time my father snuck him out of the hospital after he underwent open-heart surgery just so he smoke a cigarette.
Smoking is a common thread in my family and whether it's me thinking metaphorically or not, the lingering scent has stained my memory forever.
There was a film I saw many, many years ago where I saw my own death and where I dreamt about it.
The first thing I remember when I wake up is being hit by a car while carrying a couple of paper bags worth of groceries. It wasn't bad, but my nose bleeds and soon enough, my wife will never see me alive again.
We weren't rich but we had one another and I miss that feeling, I miss those mornings, afternoons, and evenings even if that wasn't me.
These days, I'm used to being and feeling away.
Yesterday I dreamt about that feeling I had in junior high when I never got to play a minute on the basketball team. It was the loneliest I've ever felt and I wanted to feel that again so I can tell myself that everything's going to be fine and that I'll survive.
Some days I don't speak to my dreams.
Other days the conversations are with someone I know really well, like a close friend.
Then there are days where nobody talks at all and it's just me.
As I smoke my last cigarette of the day, the only thought I have left is that I'm not the same as I was yesterday. As I self-reflect for the 30th day in a row, I know I can be better every day. As I conclude this post, I know I'll smile again one day, even though it might take a few more minutes or two.
And even if I don't smile like how I used to, I know that I at least tried.
Regardless of that smile, what comes close to that only happens once a week and for now that'll remain my secret or forever in my dreams.
To be continued.
© 2026 Johnny Nghiem
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