Written by Y. W. from Canada Every July 12th, she bakes chocolate cake. His favorite. The same recipe. The same chipped plate. She places it on the table beside his last postcard from Vietnam: “Sun’s brutal here. Don’t worry, Ma. Love you.” Upstairs, his room is still neat: model planes dusted, socks folded, bed made military-tight. She lights a single candle. Waits. By midnight, the cake remains untouched. She eats a slice. She chews slowly, like if she eats slow en
