My mother immigrated to the United States from Vietnam at a young age, traveling with her parents, three brothers, and a sea of cousins. For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to see the place they once called home — to understand the rhythm of the life they left behind. Before I ever had the chance, I found a postcard and recreated it in colored pencil, a quiet promise to myself that I would go. Years later, I finally did — and it was as beautiful and familiar as if I had carried it with me all along.