***
Back then, my mother told me that the melaleuca tree was intimately connected to the people of our land, from simple things to complex ones, from the blazing firewood in warm kitchens to the wood used to build house pillars, doors, chairs, beds, and cabinets... completely filling the houses along the canals in the prosperous South of Vietnam. But I didn't like the melaleuca blossoms. Every time I walked under the canopy of blooming yellow melaleuca trees, with bees buzzing around, I would feel a throbbing headache and a wave of nausea. My mother said I was probably allergic to the melaleuca blossoms, so she asked my uncle to cut down all the melaleuca trees around the house, by the riverbank, fearing that I wouldn't be able to bear the flowers when they bloomed.
My mother loved me unconditionally. It wasn't until I learned to look in the mirror to adjust my posture, my arm movements, and my smile to be more graceful that I asked her, just as a slip of the tongue:
- What if, after I get married, you're left alone, Mom? Will you ever regret not getting married when you were younger and more beautiful...?
Mom knew I was just asking for the sake of talking. At that age, I couldn't possibly think about such profound things. But she answered truthfully:
No, Mom doesn't mind at all. Living alone is better for her health.
I don't know if that's a common sentiment among those who choose to live a solitary life. I only worry about my mother's future, when she's old and alone. For me, how could this land of mangroves and nipa palms possibly hold my heart? But for my mother, even a more luxurious, vibrant, and prosperous place couldn't hold her soul captive, when she will forever belong here, to this green field with the distant row of mangroves stretching across it…
***
It was also time I learned that I wasn't my mother's biological child. She didn't hide it, but she also didn't proactively tell me. Perhaps she was afraid I couldn't handle what she considered a "shock" in life. Or maybe she was afraid I would be sad and cry. But I didn't cry. In a drunken stupor, my uncle called me over, whispered a secret to me, and asked if I was sad knowing this. I laughed and said it didn't matter who gave birth to me; now I was her child, and I would be with her for the rest of my life. My uncle laughed drunkenly, saying I was decisive but also very kind. I looked at my mother and saw her gently wipe away tears with the hem of her shirt. She didn't blame my uncle, because sooner or later she would have to tell me my true identity.
I was a child my mother found in front of a temple one late spring night, with a light drizzle falling…
In the fading afternoon sunlight, with the star jasmine bushes still blazing in the front yard and the mangrove trees on the other side of the river already turning yellow, I pulled a chair out onto the veranda and sat there while my mother untangled my hair. Her hands gently glided the comb through my soft hair. I looked out into the yard, gazing at the star jasmine, finding it pleasing to the eye. Then I looked deep into my mother's eyes and said with unwavering determination, as if I could accomplish it immediately:
- When I get a job and earn money, I'll bring you to the city to live with us so we can have more fun and avoid hardship, okay Mom?
My mother remained silent, continuing to comb through my hair. Later, she sat on the wooden doorstep, polished smooth by time, looking out at the courtyard. After the Lunar New Year, the courtyard was still beautiful, not as vibrant as the New Year celebrations, but still dotted with a few flowers of each kind, remnants of the season.
- My greatest wish in life is for you to grow up to be a good person, to live a decent life, and to be respected by others.
My mother spoke with a smile, her eyes gazing wistfully at the gently flowing river that passed by the house, its banks shaded by mangrove trees, their blossoms carrying a faint fragrance, then she said decisively:
- My mother's life is tied to this mangrove forest! She can't leave this place and go anywhere else.
I sulked but said nothing more, because at that time I was still basking in the shade of the melaleuca trees, the leaves, the embrace of my homeland. Becoming an adult – for me at that time, it was still a very distant concept!
I lived those peaceful days beside my mother. She silently provided shade for me. Just like the vast mangrove forests that continue to flourish, their roots clinging tightly to the soil, the green of the mangroves becoming the color of my homeland. I grew up surrounded by that vibrant green! My mother's back bent more each day, like the mangrove tree by the riverbank that sprouted from the moment I left home. After a storm, the tree fell, the riverbank eroded, but the mangrove tree still clung to the soil and survived, albeit in an unusual form.
Every time I go back to my hometown, I see my mother's back becoming more and more hunched with age, and I worry. Many times I've tried to persuade her to come live with me in the city. There, I have a house, and even a small yard where she can put some potted plants and take care of them to ease her homesickness. But she absolutely refuses. She repeats her old words, saying that her life is only connected to this melaleuca forest, and if she leaves here, she won't be herself anymore! I have no choice but to return home more often, because I know that the elderly can count the times they see their loved ones on their fingers, while young people far from home count their visits back home by the number of Tet holidays…
***
Years have passed, but the old house remains unchanged, the scenery of the homeland unchanged, even though urbanization reached the town several years ago. Melaleuca trees still grow abundantly along the riverbank.
My mother is gone. The house is still there, everything is still there, even the thorn bush still silently burns its flame despite no one tending or watering it. Only my mother is gone!
The yard, devoid of my mother's footsteps, sweeping and tidying, felt as if something profoundly sacred was missing from my heart.
The saying is true: "While you have a mother, there's always a way home; without a mother, even the path back to your hometown becomes blurred." It's not that I don't miss my hometown, but for some reason, my trips back have become less frequent. Until one day, I was shocked to realize how long it had been since I last personally weeded my mother's grave. The small grave lies beneath the shade of a melaleuca tree, sheltered by the gentle embrace of my homeland.
I visited my mother's grave. A concrete bridge replaced the old, leisurely ferry. The house where I grew up appeared before my eyes. And somewhere in the green of the melaleuca trees, in the brown of the simple tiled roof, in the yellow of the water hyacinth flowers, in the somber color of the wooden fence, rickety by wind and rain…
I whispered, "Mom!" and tears streamed down my face… amidst the quiet sounds of the countryside afternoon, the weary chirping of the palm trees. I gently reached up and touched my hair. The hair my mother used to comb for me years ago now had a few strands of gray…
Short story: Hoang Khanh Duy
Source: https://baocantho.com.vn/di-trong-huong-tram-a201295.html
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