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1 1 Early one September morning, I woke to the sound of dripping water. The first monsoon rains had come in the night. Outside my bedroom window, water rolled off the bright flowers and green leaves. The subtle aroma of dewy jasmine flowers enveloped me, and I imagined little jasmine buds in our garden, ready to unfold their petals. My three roosters—the pride of my collection—crowed their hearts out, the majestic Siem Reap River behind them. I pulled the blanket around me. Norane and the others were already up; it was just me and my younger brothers, Nosay and Monika, who were still in bed. Nosay’s slender legs fell almost off the bed while Monika’s chubby frame took up the bulk of the rumpled covers. We were allowed to sleep late on Sundays so I didn’t disturb them. I lay down again, enjoying the peace of an unrushed morning. Suddenly, I remembered my chores. We were all assigned tasks around the house, even though our live-in servant could have easily done all the work. With very few exceptions, we were assigned errands every day, including holidays. We cleaned the orchard, watered the vegetables and the flowers, swept out the front yard, or gathered eggs from our chickens. My siblings and I often complained to each other about our chores. Today it was my turn to water the garden and the plants around the house. This task could take me all day so I decided to start while it was still cool. I usually loved gardening, but this chore involved lugging gallons of water from the Siem Reap River, over and over. First I had to dip the tin buckets in, fill them with water, and hoist them up. Then began the long walk home, balancing the buckets on their bamboo stick. We lived just across the road from the river, but our house sat high on a landfill, and the distance felt much farther with all that weight, the angle much steeper. I watered the plants one by one, all around the house, heading back often to refill the cans. Fatigue threatened to Childhood Idyll Siem Reap overtake me before I got even halfway around the house. I pushed on, determined to finish quickly. Near the last plant I heard chirping. It was a dying bird hidden by blades of grass. Its left wing bled. Feeling sorry for the little being, I took off my shirt and wrapped the bird inside it before running to show my mother. Maybe she would know how to help the bird get better, just like all those times she stayed with me through fevers and stomach aches, nursing me back to health. I heard my mother in the front yard. She was talking about a new baby in the neighborhood. A short man stood next to Father’s handwritten “Schoolteacher/Administrator” sign at the front gate, carrying a couple of bags on his shoulder. My mother’s fair, moon-shaped face was open and cheerful. Her hair was short and she was a bit chubby, in a pretty way. But the most noticeable thing about her was her banter. I caught a grin on the man’s face and guessed he was enjoying her loud but cheery chatter. He dropped some coins, riels, in my mother’s hand. In his bags I saw custard apples and jasmine buds. They’re from our garden, I thought to myself, proud that my help tending the plants had brought in some family income. “Mae, can you help me?” I asked after the man walked away. Mae is the country word for “mother,” and it was what my siblings and I called our mother. “What is it? What do you want?” “I found this bird—,” I held out my swaddled treasure. “It’s sick, Mae. How can I help it feel better?” She smiled at me and patted my head. “These animals you bring home, they die. They are not well, Ah Ngouss,” she said, using my nickname. “There is nothing we can do to help them. But go ahead; put it on the back porch.” She was right. The bird did not last through the night. In this way I learned about life, sickness, and death. But even as I learned these hard lessons again and again, I continued to believe that maybe I could help the next animal I saw. My nickname, Ah Ngouss (pronounced ah-NGWAH), meant “Dummy.” I...

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