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 homelands, whether plains or semi-mountainous areas, have 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 with cool water was a beautiful branch of Vinh Giang flowing between my hometown Dong Thanh and Thanh Khe villages.

In the reflection of the river, the green villages on both sides embrace each other warmly. The small river is so 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 for some sweet guava, or some newly ripened chay fruit at the beginning of the season...

The names of people are dirty, but warm and resounding. Calling one person can be heard clearly by the whole village. Calling one person can make the river surface stir, the water flowers sway with joy, and a few small fishes squirm in surprise…

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 like the tip of a toothpick. They swim around, circling around people's feet without fear. Occasionally, among them are some anchovies, scads, and striped fish. But these are smart and cautious, only jumping up to see if there is anything edible, then quickly diving to suck it up.

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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 had enough dirty things with fish, shrimp, rivers, lakes, and rice fields. So after I left my hometown, missing the river was like missing my childhood and youth. The ducks were jumping around. A few dead bodies were begging for soy sauce on the morning glory stalks. A few frogs were hiding in the purple water fern bushes, suddenly jumping 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 hold a hookless rod in their hands to the river to lure the streamers. They just tied the worm to the end of a string and wiggled it on the water surface. Suddenly, a few colorful streamers, eager to eat, rushed out from the water fern roots, quickly took the bait, then were jerked up, jumping around on the muddy road. Each kid caught ten, then called out to each other to bathe the buffalo, swim with bananas.

The river suddenly became sluggish, wavering, and filled with laughter. The river turned into a magical space for childhood performances. We grew up a little more, the river became longer and wider, joyful, offering our youth dreamy, affectionate 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, which created a close relationship. Over many generations, many 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 a close relationship.

The village was always bustling with people receiving and receiving goods, adults reminded children how to call them properly. So the villagers at that time were very affectionate, lived innocently, worked hard with the land, shared each piece of sugar cane, sweet potato, handful of tea, cassava. Grapefruit, bunch of banana, orange, gave each other Tet gifts to display on the five-fruit tray. All they had to do was go to the riverbank, call out to the other side, and tell someone to come over and get it. Then the laughter would be crisp and shimmering on the river surface...

Yet now, that same river, because of the local sewage 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 reach the village entrance, the river will always be faithfully waiting...

The small river to me, once more than the vast fields where storks flew, providing a warm and 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 throughout their lives working 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 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 village today, are still inseparable from modern life with cars parked in front of the gate, with tap water flowing into 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, and carefully cultivated fragrant herbs for a warm evening meal.

Now, the river is no longer clean, and there are no duckweeds. The life of all things 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 heartbroken. Sometimes, I want to do something right away to reclaim the blue river, of my childhood, of my youth, until the day my hair turned gray and reflected in the water...

I love a river that still carries the fate of so many villagers day and night, but now is no longer gentle, clear, and passionate. I remember 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 our childhood down to the fields, flowing to Mother River, to ease the hardships of our mothers, sisters, and homelands, so bitter and sweet. And then, growing up, far away from home, we always long to “go towards the river”, “look into the river water”…

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