Afternoon on the river is brilliant

The sound of the beam hitting the side of the boat, clucking... clucking, Ms. Thoa bent down to tie up her loose hair that was fluttering in the wind blowing from the other side of the river. Ho lo... the boat drifted silently, drifting on the river of life, taking people far away, far away from the beloved wharf, carrying with it many lingering feelings ... she leaned forward to push the beam, singing softly. The boat tilted, turned, then glided away with the sound of cymbals on the river's surface, leaving behind the smooth sandbank darkened in the clouds.

The afternoon was deserted. I stopped to remove the clover flowers stuck to my pants legs. Seeing my shadow, Ms. Thoa stopped rowing and shouted: "Lem! Last night, Uncle An came back. He told me that if you love him, you should get married!". Ms. Thoa tilted her head and smiled charmingly, her laughter like broken glass pieces hitting each other, then it sank when the boat was already in the middle of the river. I only had time to call out to the river: "Auntie, tomorrow my grandma will go north...". Before I could finish, Ms. Thoa quickly turned the boat to the shore, leaned close to the water's edge to tie the roof beam, and rushed towards me, panting: "Oh, grandma is going too, honey?".

"Yes, I heard that there is a psychic out there who helps many families find their lost relatives. My father's friend took my grandfather there. He said he just wanted my uncle to return to his grandfather and father so that he could feel at ease."

Miss Thoa sat down on the sand dune that had just been piled up by the waves like an upside-down cone. Outside, the river gently raised its water level at her feet. The sad sound of the lapwing spread across the river's surface, giving off a strong, warm, fishy smell. She absentmindedly picked up some clover flowers and put them in her palm, blowing them away in the wind. I sat next to her, using a stick to poke at the body of a small fish that had washed ashore among the rotten grass. The afternoon was getting dark, I stood up and brushed off my two pants legs covered in sand: "Go home, don't let grandma wait!" Miss Thoa quietly went to the river to scoop up water and splash it on her face. Her fingers quickly wiped away the water that was smudging her eyes and sticking to her sideburns. Her voice was carried into the wind: "Four Tinh's family burned the fields, the smoke stings my eyes!"

The small figure of Ms. Thoa swayed on the deserted wharf, gradually fading in my eyes.

My village is on the banks of the Thu River, along the banks. The vast mulberry fields give the village a dreamy look along the winding road filled with the scent of flowers and grass all year round, the purple flower fields stretch out darkly in the evening shadows. Every morning when I wake up, I see mist covering the river, obscuring half of the horizon. My village is on the banks of the Thu River, each year the land sinks into patches, so since when has the village been named Bo Lo, the sand fields like gentle slopes sloping down, following the villages of silkworm raising and silk weaving.

Every day, my mother crossed the river to the village market by Mr. Lang’s boat at the wharf. Sometimes, Ms. Thoa took my grandmother on death anniversaries. She sat at the bow, leisurely fanning the awning, the sound of the fanning water was gentle and soothing. My grandmother sat at the end of the boat, absentmindedly looking at the sky and earth, humming a lullaby, “Who is back, tell your source friend, send young jackfruit down, send flying fish up …”

My grandmother told me that both times my father and uncle An gave birth, both times they were caught in floods. My grandmother named uncle An to remember the kindness of the village who helped them in times of danger. My uncle and aunt Thoa had a secret crush on each other since the days when they used to herd cows in the valley. Aunt Thoa was not exactly beautiful but charming, her salty look made everyone want to look at her for a long time and stop at her eyes, which were as black as the surface of a moss-covered lake. She was gentle, smiled often, and even more gentle when she smiled. The day my uncle joined the army, she took him across the river, the boat returned, she was still absent-mindedly on the dock, quietly looking to the other side, the raft in her hand dragging a long line on the sand.

Ms. Thoa lived with her grandmother in the house at the end of the village. Every few days, she would find an excuse to visit my grandmother. Sometimes she would tie the chicken coop door, sometimes she would rinse the jars waiting for the rain to catch water. Sometimes, when she saw that the rice in the bin was empty, she would go into the room to scoop up a few jars of rice to grind. She quietly did everything like a daughter-in-law of my grandmother. My grandmother sat on the porch, her eyes filled with tears as she hurried out to the alley. I knew that she missed Uncle An. Sometimes, tears welled up in her eyes, and she would secretly wipe them away with her finger, but the tears of longing still flowed without stopping.

Uncle An was gone forever, my grandmother did not know where his body was. Every afternoon, my grandmother went to the wharf, her eyes fixedly looking across as if waiting. On the afternoon my uncle left, the sandbank was deserted, the sunlight shimmering on the riverbed, dimly covered with dense bushes, on the horizon, the clouds glowed with a red halo in the late afternoon. The boat crossed to the other wharf, my uncle turned back to look at my grandmother lovingly, his hand raised and waving endlessly. From that day on, every night, Ms. Thoa quietly went to the river, she looked at the river and sang, the same song from the day my uncle had not gone far: Ho lo... Drifting on the river of love, the river of love, familiar with the ups and downs, drifting with the waves of love...

One time, my grandmother pulled Ms. Thoa close, pressed her rough hands to her chest and whispered: "Get married, my child. The boys in our village are worried about you. Either way, An is no longer here. Looking at you like this, I feel sorry for you!" Ms. Thoa just smiled with relief, the corner of her mouth deeply dimpled like a grain of rice, very charming.

When I was a child, every afternoon, hearing the sound of crackling coming from the riverbank, I hurriedly threw the rubber bands I was playing with into a corner, hurriedly crossed the reed grass, followed the path along the edge of the field towards the river, next to the old banyan tree whose trunk was leaning down like a curtain, Ms. Thoa tied the boat to a pole, took off her hat and fanned her sweat. Every time she heard my footsteps, she chattered and pulled me to sit down and tell me a story, about this afternoon when she passed the sandbank and saw a group of children crowding to buy to he from an old mute man on the street to sell, while telling the story she took out of her shirt pocket for me, sometimes a to he shaped like a princess, sometimes a grasshopper made of coconut leaves, sometimes a green or red lollipop. I sat next to her, taking the opportunity to inhale the sweet scent wafting from her shirt, the scent that lulled me into my dreams at night, spreading all the way to a windy riverbank.

"Why do you always smell good?", I asked once.

Ms. Thoa burst out laughing, her face flushed: "Because Uncle An likes the smell of chestnut flowers."

* * *

My grandfather packed his bags and left. Miss Thoa took him to the wharf in the twilight. For more than half a month, my grandfather was gone, and I could not sleep at night. I lay listening to the sound of people whispering and talking from outside the wharf. The sound of the pouring rain on the riverbank swayed, and the white swallows flew back with the water. I dreamed that at the end of the road, my tall and thin uncle was staggering back on his limping legs, amidst a field of purple flowers blooming to the horizon. Miss Thoa ran toward him, hiding her red face behind her messy hair, her laughter filling the deserted riverbank. She gently leaned on his shoulder, her autumn lake eyes shining as my uncle bent down to whisper: "Did you wait long for me?"

She nodded her head and smiled to the sound of birds chirping in the afternoon fields. "Then we will build some rafts to raise shrimp on this river, I will raise chickens, plant some beds of Malabar spinach..." In my dream, I still heard Ms. Thoa singing, her singing spread out on the riverbank like a call in the quiet night: Ho lo... Life is a river, we drift like a boat, rowing back and forth, drifting through life ...

My grandmother returned, exhausted, the dented cloth bag fluttering in her old, shriveled arms. She sat down on the doorstep and exhaled, her breathing sounding painful and sad. In the distant fields, the gloomy afternoon mist made it impossible for me to distinguish between the lingering smoke and the hazy mist. Aunt Thoa heard that my grandmother had returned and immediately ran over. From the alley, she saw my grandmother absent-mindedly. She quietly walked in, her fingers constantly fiddling with the hem of her shirt. My grandmother looked up at her, the sadness in her eyes made me not dare to look for long. Aunt Thoa slowly sat down next to my grandmother, her rough hand cupping my grandmother's hand. As if waiting for that moment, my grandmother collapsed into her arms and sobbed.

"Mom, don't cry! Don't cry!", she said, but she choked up: "After a month of sowing the rice fields, I took you to find An. He used to say that wherever he went, he wanted to come back. He would come back, he would come back... to our village so that tomorrow morning we could go to the river to listen to the larks singing."

That night, under the bright moonlight, I looked out from the mosquito net and saw my grandmother sitting on the porch. Silent. Her back was curved like a hook, her shoulders were slumped down, trembling in the sound of dry leaves falling, the yellow light from the kitchen shed trembled, carving a long, motionless line.

The afternoon sky was dry. The wild grass on the riverbank drooped after the cold sunlight. That night, the rain came suddenly, the foxtail grass on the riverbank bent and turned purple. My uncle left, and has not returned since that flowering season. It was a night at the end of April. My grandmother cried and laughed. Hope and despair. Only Ms. Thoa was steadfast with a smile that lit up the whole river: "Mr. An promised, he will come back, meet me at this bend of the river, at the foot of the bridge there is a branch of the banyan tree hanging down, it's just that he is still wandering somewhere, Mom!".

I lay on the riverbank among the grass after the rain, smelling musty. In my hometown, the sunsets are so sad.

Another season of white reeds gently glowed in the early morning covered with drizzle, swallows flew back, turning a stretch of the river white, gliding through the sad clouds. Night after night, on the deserted wharf, the sound of human footsteps quietly glided across the sand. The moon was vast, becoming clearer and clearer, the moon was cold like dew pouring down the riverbank, Ms. Thoa was alone, precariously balanced on the wharf, looking towards the horizon. Alone. Alone. The night gradually passed into morning, she fell asleep, dew fell and wet a shoulder of hair, waking up she found herself still sitting in the vast twilight.

The alley was full of rice fields and stretched out to the ditch, the house with a dark tiled roof stood in the middle of a garden of rustling trees chatting with a flock of larks on the branches of the bamboo tree in front of the alley. My grandmother used a coconut broom to sweep long streaks across the yard bare of broken bricks, then prepared the offering tray, arranged sticky rice, sweet soup, and votive papers on the table placed on the porch in the afternoon sun, mumbled prayers, the votive papers trembled in her hands before turning into ashes. This time, my grandmother prepared to go searching again.

Night. From the riverbank came the eerie sound of the old banyan tree blowing in the wind. I fell asleep until the first rays of the morning sun shone through the barred window, a long streak of apricot yellow, the ripe fruit in the garden fell with a thud, it seemed like a bunch of old bananas were ripening. I woke up and looked out, the house was deserted, at this time my mother had gone to sea, my grandmother and Aunt Thoa had probably gone to the other side of the river. I went out to the porch, my eyes caught sight of the cloth bag containing the clutter my grandmother had packed and brought with her, still there. I looked around but didn't see my grandmother anywhere, I went out to the garden, outside the chicken coop, under the pond, but I couldn't see her either. I went out to the back porch, the rake was still standing in the corner. Feeling something was wrong, I rushed into the house, in the dimly lit room, my grandmother lay still as if sleeping...

My mother heard the news and ran home, just as Ms. Thoa had just entered the porch. My grandmother walked softly, her lips still slightly parted as if she had not yet had time to tell my mother her last words, the thin lines of smoke still squinting at the corners of her eyes as if smiling.

Noi followed him.

My village took my grandmother to the field on a pouring rain afternoon. The cuckoo's call echoed long and sad in the deserted afternoon fields. Miss Thoa quietly walked behind, her face silently bowed as if counting the last moments with her grandfather. Every afternoon when she returned from the wharf, she stopped by my house, went to the garden and gently touched the mango tree, the well wall, and each jar of fish sauce that my grandfather still kept on the porch. I missed him so much. Without my grandmother, there was only the desolate fields and grass. I was bewildered, going in and out of the deserted house.

I had been in the city for half a year when I heard that Ms. Thoa had gotten married. A late marriage. Her husband was from the neighboring village, gentle and resourceful, the one who had waited for her for many years. On her wedding day, I hurried back to see her in her wedding dress. I stood in the middle of the bustling crowd, looking at her hair pinned up with a branch of white flowers, her hair already starting to turn gray, making me tear up. Still smiling, still as deep as a grain of rice, still with eyes as black as a moss-covered lake, but now with a few streaks of dew...

Back in the city, work kept me busy, the countryside was getting farther and farther away. Every time I came back, I heard my mother tell stories. The story of Ms. Thoa getting married and no longer going to the dock, only staying at home to help her husband manage the bamboo and rattan workshop, the story of her and her husband being well-off and happy with their three-year-old daughter.

The last days of the year, the city is bustling with cars coming and going. I am also restless. The row of rented houses is deserted, the cold wind suddenly creeps into the street, even into the small alley filled with the sound of clinking glasses at the year-end party. In the alley, the fragrant smell of ginger jam boiling in someone's house wafts. More than ever, I crave the family atmosphere, crave to see my grandmother going in and out preparing the year-end offerings.

When I got to the end of the alley, I could smell the scent of someone's freshly pounded sticky rice cakes in the wind. The vast garden had been deserted since my grandfather left, with two pots of bright yellow marigolds on the porch. My mother sat adding more firewood to the steaming pot of banh tet, telling me about Ms. Thoa who had come over this afternoon, bringing a bag of sesame cakes she had made herself to offer to our ancestors, then turned to point at the two pots of flowers: "Ms. Thoa bought them. She said your grandfather loves the smell of marigolds, there's nothing better."

I went to the river, suddenly missing Ms. Thoa more than ever. I ran against the wind, panting, listening to the layers of water lapping against the riverbank, the sound of the water splashing against the boat's side, breaking the still space. Someone's shadow looked like Ms. Thoa, burying her face in her hair spread out on the grass in the swaying wind. I suddenly realized that the river's flow was different now, it had eroded both banks, making the river even more immense and deep...

"Are you back?", without looking up at me, her voice was lost in the sound of the afternoon wind blowing over the swaying river.

"Why are you still here at this hour?", I felt my heart ache with immense pity when I saw her alone among a purple flower field in the fading afternoon sun.

Ms. Thoa pointed across the river: "Lem, do you see anything?"

In the afternoon glow, the water hyacinths slowly drifted back under the last rays of the day, casting bright orange-red clouds, reflecting on the river like brilliant peach silk ribbons. Her voice whispered: "For many years now, every New Year's Eve, Uncle An has returned...".

"Huh... I didn't see it? When grandpa was still alive, I always stayed up on New Year's Eve to prepare the offerings with him?!", I was confused.

Miss Thoa gently pressed her hand on my head: "Uncle An is coming back in the most beautiful cloud!", she pointed to the high sky, above which layers of brilliant clouds were gathering, her eyes flickered, radiant as if she had just seen my uncle passing by. All around was silent, I could hear her heart beating softly from her chest... "Let's go home, my child!", she held my hand and slowly walked on the road covered in purple flowers. Looking over quietly, I recognized on that dreamy and discreet face a pair of eyes still deep under the crescent-shaped eyebrows like a drawing. From the end of the river, a single plover was flying back, its mouth holding a bunch of dry grass.

The night was chilly, the spring rain was drizzling on the roof. Outside in the yard, the faint scent of marigolds mixed with the scent of the incense my mother had just lit, was warm. I curled up in the blanket and heard the faint sound of footsteps on the porch mixed with the wind, as if there, as if there wasn't.

The sound of footsteps walking home. So softly…

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