[E-Magazine]: Flowers in a Quiet Alley

The vitality of a flower lies not in its fragile appearance, but in its ability to revive after storms. Women are the same; some have abandoned their youthful dreams, gone through weary times... But they continue to nurture their lives, still holding within their hearts a gentle corner.

The small alley is always quiet. Outsiders passing by usually don't notice it because it lacks any flashy signs. But if you slow down, you'll see colorful flower pots lining both sides of the alley, as if someone has silently scattered an unnamed spring here.

The flowerbeds nestled against the walls, tucked beside the steps, sometimes just a repurposed old milk can as a pot. Portulaca, impatiens, a few clumps of evening primrose, a couple of scrawny petunias... Anything that could survive, people kept. The alley was poor, the land was limited, but there was never a shortage of colorful flowers.

In the mornings, when the adults go to work and the children go to school, only the women remain at home. They sweep the yard, do the laundry, and then, while they're at it, water the potted flowers in front of the door. The work happens as naturally as breathing. The flowers grow silently, just like the way they live each day.

At the end of the alley lives Ms. Lien, who runs a general store. She grows a small row of chrysanthemums along the wall. Every afternoon, after closing her shop, she sits picking up fallen leaves while listening to the radio. Her husband has been at sea for many years and hasn't returned; he was said to have disappeared in a storm. Since then, she has lived a quieter life, but the flowers in front of her house are always fresh. When someone asks why she doesn't remove some of them to make things easier, she just smiles and says that looking at the flowers helps her remember that the days are still passing.

In the alleyway stood the low-roofed house of a seamstress. She returned home after dark, but still took a few minutes to water the gourd vines in front of her door. The vines not only provided fruit but also shaded her house from the sweltering midday sun. The long vines clung to the old iron bars, just like how she clung to life after her failed marriage. People saw her always smiling, but sometimes her eyes would wander as if she were thinking of somewhere else.

The flowers in the alley are not uniform. Some pots are vibrant, others have only a few leaves. But no one compares them. Each house has its own color, just like each woman carries her own story.

Nowadays, people often say that women must be strong, successful, and go out into society to assert themselves. But in the quiet alleyways, strength is sometimes much simpler. It's the mother who wakes up before dawn to prepare breakfast for her children. It's the wife who shoulders the burden of the entire family when her husband is unemployed. It's the elderly woman who still tends to her potted plants even though her knees ache whenever the weather changes. They don't call it sacrifice. They are simply "living."

One rainy afternoon, the wind toppled the trees in the alley. Many flowerpots were knocked over, soil spilling onto the path. The next morning, as soon as the rain stopped, the women quietly brought out brooms to clean up. Some helped their neighbors set up the pots, others gathered the soil around the base of the plants. The crushed petals were replaced by new sprouts. The alley quickly became tidy again. I stood watching them, suddenly understanding that the vitality of flowers lies not in their fragile appearance, but in their ability to revive after a storm. Women are the same. Some have abandoned their youthful dreams, gone through days of weariness unknown to anyone. But they continue to nurture life, still holding a gentle corner in their hearts. Like flowers, even growing beside an old wall, they still find a way to reach for the sunlight.

Then more young families moved into the alley. New flower pots appeared. Some planted succulents, others hung baskets of orchids, and a young woman who opened a small bakery even placed a few pots of pale purple lavender in front of her door. The colors of the flowers changed, but the spirit remained the same. Everyone wanted to preserve a patch of green to make life less barren.

As evening falls, the last rays of sunlight glide across the time-worn walls. Flowers sway gently in the breeze, and the silhouettes of women are cast upon the old cement pavement. They have been through a long day, perhaps tired and worried, but they still stop to admire the blooming flowers, as if reminding themselves that life is not just about the burden of making a living.

Content by: Nguyen Tran Thanh Truc

Photo: Internet source

Graphics: Mai Huyen

Source: https://baothanhhoa.vn/e-magazine-hoa-trong-ngo-vang-281768.htm