Go towards the river…

Every time Tet approaches the village, the cold wind blows along the road hugging the river. The village is green all year round, bordering the river as if wanting to join hands with the gentle mother water. Vietnamese homeland, whether in the plains or semi-mountainous areas, has long established the institution of hamlets embracing the river banks.

Perhaps because water is the source of life. And rivers in the past also played the role of waterway transportation. Wherever there were people and villages, there were fields, rivers, and lakes. Rivers were the lifeblood, silently holding the lives of the people, nurturing the lush green of the villages.

The first river my feet touched was a beautiful branch of Vinh Giang flowing between my hometown Dong Thanh and Thanh Khe villages.

In the reflection of the river water, the green villages on both sides embrace each other warmly. The river is so small and dear that a pole across can sometimes reach both banks. So the happiest moment is when we hear the sound of the river from this side reaching the other side, calling each other to wake up early, pick some water spinach, and still have time to go to the market. Call each other some sweet guavas, or some newly ripe chay fruits…

The names of people were dirty, but warm and resounding. Calling one person, the whole village could hear clearly. Calling one person, the river surface stirred, the water flowers shook with joy, and a few small fish wriggled around in confusion…

In the autumn afternoon, the sky is clear and the clouds are white, the water fern sways, like the long hair of a fairy fluttering. I often go to the river, sometimes to look for duckweed, sometimes to pick vegetables, sometimes to do laundry. In the innocent joy of childhood with the river, there is the pleasure of bathing and playing with the tiny water mites, the size of toothpicks. They swim around people's feet without fear. Occasionally, among them are some anchovies, weighing and striping flags. But these are clever and cautious, just jumping up to see if there is anything edible and then quickly diving to suck.

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I always think, the river is like a clear mirror, reflecting lives. The village by the river, the trees leaning towards the river lovingly.

Back then, I also got dirty with fish, shrimp, rivers, lakes, and rice fields. So, after I left my hometown, remembering the river was like remembering my childhood and youth. The crayfish hopping around. A few dead fish begging for soy sauce on the morning glory stalks. A few frogs hiding in the purple water fern bushes suddenly jumped up to grab a dragonfly.

In the afternoon, a few kids invited each other to carry a rusty butter tube with some wriggling hibiscus worms, and a hookless rod to the river to lure the streamers. They just needed to tie the worm to the end of a string and wave it around on the water surface. Suddenly, a few colorful streamers, eager to eat, rushed out from the water fern roots, quickly took the bait, and were jerked up, jumping around on the muddy road. Each kid caught ten of them, then called out to each other to bathe in buffaloes and swim in banana boats.

The river suddenly became sluggish, wavering, and filled with laughter. The river transformed into a magical space for childhood performances. We grew up a little bit, the river became longer and wider, joyful, offering our youth dreamy, loving skies. The two friends who used to pick vegetables and collect duckweed together in the afternoon, after seven or eight years, when they grew up, the memories of working together in the past suddenly became treasures of their youth, for the wandering boys and girls to recall the moonlit night on the bridge across the river where the majestic twin cotton trees were, and then they became a couple, husband and wife...

The two villages shared a river and became close friends, through many generations, and countless bridal processions crossed the bridge, creating many new families between the two villages, with many children and grandchildren. Many people became relatives, on both sides, and even if they were not related, they still had a bit of close affinity.

The villagers were always busy receiving and receiving goods, adults reminded children how to properly address them. So the villagers at that time were very affectionate, lived innocently, worked hard with the land, shared each piece of sugarcane, sweet potato, handful of tea, cassava. Grapefruit, bunch of banana, orange, gave each other Tet gifts to display on the five-fruit tray. They just had to go to the river bank, call out to the other side, and tell someone to come get them. Then the laughter would be crisp and shimmering on the river surface...

Yet now, that same river, because of the local wastewater and industrial wastewater flowing in from the city gate, is no longer clean, without algae, so the laughter is gradually fading away. The fairy with wild hair, the flock of water mites, the flock of flags, are only shadows, hidden in my childhood memories. I always miss the rivers, especially when Tet is approaching. Because I know, when I get to the village entrance, the river will always be faithfully waiting...

The small river to me, which was once more than the vast fields where storks flew, providing a prosperous harvest in the past, has now become a city and a factory. Missing the old river sometimes makes me think of the weary steps today on the dry concrete road. Perhaps, the whole field to the eyes of my childhood was too vast, sometimes hazy and distant.

The fields are filled with the feelings of mother and sister more, because mother and sister have worked the hardest during their entire life of working hard with rice, corn, shrimp and fish in the fields, so that we can be loved affectionately, hugged and caressed, and have the most fun playing in the rivers.

I always think that the river is like a clear mirror, reflecting the lives. The village by the river, the trees leaning towards the river lovingly. The shadows of people crossing the river, the bamboo bridge shaking with each beat. In the mirror of the river water, so many people are so many fates, having bathed their lives there, having grown up thanks to the fresh water from the rivers. Downstream from Dong Thanh, Thanh Khe, through Xom Trai, the people of Dong - Khe - Trai today, are still not separated from modern life with cars parked in front of the gate, with tap water running to their kitchens, with the small Vinh Giang river. In the past, every day they drew home buckets of cool water, kept each fish and shrimp, raised each bunch of vegetables, each sweet potato shoot to carefully save the fragrant herbs for a warm evening meal.

Now, the river is no longer clean, and there are no duckweeds. The life that once thrived, passionately, and passionately on that river has now completely disappeared. Looking at the cold gray concrete banks and the cold sewage pipes, I cannot help but feel bewildered, regretful, and sad. Sometimes, I want to do something right away to reclaim the blue river of my childhood, my youth, until the day my hair turned gray and reflected in the water...

I miss a river that still carries the fate of so many villagers day and night, but is no longer gentle, clear, and passionate. I miss the river that silently flows through the hardships and love of our parents; flows through our childhood and youth, shimmering in a childhood; has nurtured and raised so many dreams and aspirations.

A river lovingly carries us, as children, down to the fields, flowing to Mother River, to ease the hardships of our mothers, our sisters, and our homeland, with all its bitterness and sweetness. And then, growing up, far away from home, we always long to “go towards the river”, “look into the river’s water”…

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