Sleep peacefully on mother's back

(Illustration image drawn by AI)

The balcony tonight shimmers with the ivory moonlight. The pensive street corner nestles itself in the wings of the night, the roofs shimmering in the moonlight seem to be sleeping. I look up at the moon as if it holds many secrets of the street. The wind rafts are sluggish with the lingering scent of a flower blooming in the night. The small alley echoes with the sound of crickets, coming from nowhere, chirping quietly amidst the silence all around. The sound of crickets takes me back to the peaceful countryside nights shimmering with golden moonlight, I sit in my mother's lap on a bamboo bed placed in front of my grandparents' porch, in front of me is a vast windy field.

I remember the peaceful twilights, when people in my hometown often had dinner very early, when the sun had just set behind the silent trees on the horizon. That was when the old TV in my house was still dim and had no signal, and every afternoon the village children would run around playing in the yard and fields until they were tired. After coming home from playing, I would pour a bucket of cool well water and rub my back against the well wall to bathe and clean myself, then I would sit down with the whole family to eat a warm, smoky meal. Night slowly fell outside the porch, the birds would chirp and return to their nests. When the moon rose high, it was also the time when the housework was done, my mother often took me to my grandparents' house to chat. My grandmother gave birth to ten children, and after going through many ups and downs in life, my mother was the only daughter left.

The dirt road from my house to my grandmother’s house winds through hibiscus hedges blooming like lanterns, gardens embracing the scent of ripe fruit, cassava slopes where we used to pick leaves to make necklaces, tall mango trees, and old bamboo groves casting shadows on both sides. I remember mid-month nights, the road seemed to be gilded by the clear moonlight, my mother’s shadow swaying long beside my small shadow. My mother held my hand and walked softly amidst the moonlight. When we arrived at my grandmother’s house, my mother and I often sat on a bamboo bed that sometimes creaked, echoing the sounds of time, in the middle of the porch where the country breeze blew. My grandmother sat on a hammock hung inside the house, next to the window that opened onto the front porch. The bamboo bed was placed close to the window so that my mother and grandmother could hear each other clearly by just whispering softly.

On moonlit nights, my grandmother would turn off all the lights in the house, leaving only the loquat bulb on his altar. Looking at the small house, the loquat bulb emitted a modest but warm halo of light. My grandmother’s house faced the vast moonlit fields, and at night, the fresh, fragrant breezes followed one another, skipping about like a flock of children happily rushing into the front porch. Looking out at the deserted fields, I occasionally caught a few lights looming in the distance. My mother said those were people from my hometown shining their lights to catch crabs. The crabs often surfaced on moonlit nights to make love.

I leaned on my mother's lap, looking up at the moon like a golden disc on a deep velvet carpet. In my mother's warmth and the endless stories my grandmother told me, I lay chasing after images of the clouds silently drifting before me. The wind gradually calmed down, each gentle breeze gently guiding me to sleep. In the dreamy moonlight, I slept on my mother's back all the way from my grandmother's house to mine. The next morning, waking up on the familiar bed, I asked my mother when I had fallen asleep last night, and which of my grandmother's stories were still unfinished. I only know that after such sleeps, there is always a lingering taste of peace in me.

Now sitting back, I realize that being a little boy sleeping on my mother’s back was an endless happiness of my childhood. Sometimes when I come across the poem: “Little Cu Tai sleeps on my mother’s back. Sleep well, don’t leave my mother’s back” by poet Nguyen Khoa Diem, I miss my mother. The winding road between my maternal grandparents’ house and mine suddenly appears in my mind. Not wanting to wake me up while I was sleeping, my mother gently carried me back on that road. Now, amidst the hustle and bustle of making a living, sometimes I long to curl up in a deep sleep in my hometown. The peaceful wind from the fields, like a folk song, will take away all the worries and troubles. There is only my mother’s gentle figure in the moonlight of my hometown and the clear dreams without any trace of the vanity of life…/.

Tran Van Thien

Source: https://baolongan.vn/binh-yen-giac-ngu-tren-lung-me-a204639.html