Truth
Gail A. Webber
With one hand on the smooth wooden railing and the other holding my skirt down, I waited for the ferry to get underway. Pants would have been a better choice, but I’d forgotten how cold wind off the water could be.
It was the first time I’d been on a boat since 1959. That was when my cousin Trong and I left Vietnam: two crying twelve-year-olds afraid to go live with strangers. I didn’t want to be on that boat eleven years ago and I didn’t want to be on this one, but I had made a promise. By the time we docked, I had to decide whether or not to tell Trong’s grandmother the truth.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a difficult relationship with truth. I learned early how to lie and even now, truth is rarely my first choice. Trong is the only person with whom I’v
