A few month after completing in the field, I returned with my daughter to Vietnam, where we visited the sit of Kiowa,s death , and where i looked for signs of forgiveness or personal grace or whatever else the land might offer. the field was still there, though not as i remember it. Much smaller,i thought, and not nearly so menacing, and in the bright sunlight it was hard to picture what had happened on this ground some twenty years age. Except for a few marshy spots along the river. everything was bone dry.No ghosts just a flat, grassy field. The place was at peace. There were yellow butterflies. There was breeze and a wide blue sky. Along the river two old frames stood in ankle deep water, repairing the same narrow dike where we had laid out Kiowa.s body after pulling him from the muck. Things were quiet, At one point. I remember, one of the farmers looked up and shaded his eyes, staring a crossing the field at us, then after a time he wiped his forehead and went back to work.