There in the corner of the ivory room, sat a mahogany, hand-crafted, antique chair that supported the weight of the many guests that my grandmother frequently invited over for a cup of honey ginseng tea. The kind of tea that engulfed the space with a fragrant smell that mimicked the slow-growing perennial at its sweetest. The lights flickered subtly, as if not to disturb anyone and the old, gray DLP television sat leisurely with an antenna situated on the top. A small apartment in the suburbs of Montreal, a bitterly frosted city, where a little girl and her grandmother sat at the dinner table, veiled by a red table cloth and shared a massive bowl of Cheetos. My all-time favorite. I don’t know if it was its savory MSG powdered body or the comforting silent munching that I anticipated as I vigorously pressed the call button in the lobby, awaiting my grandmother’s faint “Bonjour? Hello?” in her familiar broken franglish, made me yearn for it when I bade farewell to the ambrosial smell of tea. When the light departed, I would lay under the efflorescent duvet, assuming the fetal position. That’s where I would hear the most incredible stories about escaping the Vietnam War. Those were my bedtime stories. Fueled by unimaginable yet, tragic adventures where my family faced adversary, I always fell into a deep sleep. It’s been 7 years since I’ve fallen asleep to the sound of my grandmother’s voice and her warm yet, frail hands intertwined with mine. The otter, a silvery mammal, that seeks comfort in all situations even in sleep. When floating on water, they grasp each other’s paws so they don’t drift apart. And feel insecure, without a hand to hold when floating the treacherous bodies of water that they find most adequate for their rest. Like the otter, I feel empty with the thought of once, I had heard those stories and now I can only recall parts of them. A distant memory. With my nightly rest, something still feels empty, almost insecure. Like a missing hand.  The broken words that filled my ears on that warm bed that smelled like tiger balm, a strong smelling Chinese heat rub that she used to use on me when I had a cold. It was a place of safety and security. But, now, I imagine the same apartment with a girl no different than me, hearing stories that put her to sleep and have a loving family to wake up to in the morning. Like the otter with a hand to hold. The smell of ginseng stuck to the walls like glue. But, with furniture that doesn’t belong to my grandmother. Or with a closet full of organic food without a single cheeto in the closet. But, if I laid in the bed again and closed my eyes, it wouldn’t be the smell of tea or the blinking lights that would put me to sleep in security because I would still yearn for my grandma’s voice and a hand to hold as I do everyday. Because like an otter, they don’t hold hands with another in vain or to save their own life but, to feel secure with one another and it wouldn’t feel secure floating on it’s own even if it was the same river.