A GENTLE touch on her shoulder. One of the mannequin soldiers in white dress uniform, needing to move her on.  There are four of them, respectfully – lovingly – guarding their sleeping prince in his casket, one at each corner.  She'd stopped just a few steps into the two-minute shuffle that most Vietnamese waited half a lifetime to do, as the man in front of her had started to weep.  A much younger one — his son? — takes his hand. Her attention returns to the corpse, and the slogans of the demonstrations of her youth:
Hey hey LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?
Ho Ho Ho Chi Minh...

She can't remember the rest; unsure if it was equivocally anti-war or pro-Ho, like many of them taking their first baby steps into leftist politics.

Her thoughts drift back to 1975. How they'd cheered as the last American helicopters took off from the roof of their Saigon embassy like grotesque, mechanical dragonflies. There were parties: “We all did that. The Vietcong, the people of Europe and America. Defeating the most powerful military machine on earth.”