[E-Magazine]: The silt remains

There were times when I felt empty watching the river flow endlessly into the distance, leaving behind the landslides and alluvial plains, leaving behind the young children including me to go away forever. But as I grew up, I understood that the river flowing through the village was part of a long journey of mission. The passionate stretches of the hometown river spent their entire lives to cherish the silt left behind...

My tears could not stop falling as I looked towards the end of the village, where the river flowed alone between the swaying bamboo banks. This was the old river, this was the old person that made my heart ache. I wanted to dive into the middle of the river and chirp a thousand words of longing. But the old wharf was now gone, the old road was deserted, only memories flooded back to me, forming a peaceful alluvial land. The alluvial land was deposited from the joys and sorrows and the love that bound the river and people. That was my village, the wharf was eroded all year round.

There are dawns when the river is as soft as a silk ribbon of morning dew draped over the village’s shoulders, illuminating a fairy-tale land. The river water affectionately darkens as the midday sun sets and swims freely. The sunset is beautiful with streaks of red, purple, and pink like fairies in their beautiful clothes, each swooping down into the vast, magical water. The night covers my village like a long, mysterious stream of hair, as if the river has turned into a crown studded with sparkling stars and moons. I don’t know since when, but I have loved the village river so much.

There were those days when we children were chirping like young birds, going out to the river in a row and only returning when we were all well-fed. Here was the clear blue water and the rustling bamboo banks in the wind. Here was the rapids, brown sand and pebbles clinging to the children, making them play happily. And the basins of clothes that someone went to wash, when they got to the shore, they carried them crookedly on the riverbank because they were heavy. I remember my bare feet clattering on the sand, running and slipping down the edge of the bank, making the water laugh. I remember the cool baths, competing to find mussels, snails and pebbles. And the times we leisurely lay on the grass, watching the peaceful sky of our homeland. We eagerly shared bunches of acrid clouds, sweet yellow duoi fruits, sour red mulberries. These were familiar fruits, wild fruits all over the bushes on the trail, the road leading to the river with endless joy. Every childhood joy was full of excitement but there were also deep, lingering sadnesses.

My heart aches when I see the river in pain every flood season. Every time the river is submerged, swept away by the fierce, muddy water. The bamboo banks sag and drift, the path to the river gradually disappears. The river has struggled to fight against many terrible floods. My village has been flooded many times, becoming more resilient and strong, turning alluvial soil into lush fruit seasons. My father said that the villagers have never considered the landslide as a disadvantage. The river gives the village plenty of fish and shrimp, water to irrigate all the trees in the garden, water for daily life during the dry well seasons, and gives people the joy of bathing. This landslide alluvial soil is as beautiful as a song, imbued with the love of the homeland. My father is satisfied when he grows up next to the beloved river, satisfied when he sees the villagers living together in solidarity and tolerance. Then, one by one, many generations of young adults out there also grow up from that river. Although the wharf gradually erodes as the years pass, the loving alluvium has nurtured and enriched my village with eternal happiness.

There was a time when I felt empty watching the river flow endlessly into the distance, leaving behind the landslides and alluvial plains, leaving behind the young children, including me, to go away forever. But as I grew up, I understood that the river was lonely and strong to the point of heartache. The river flowing through the village was part of a long journey of mission. The river could never stop or turn back on itself or time. The river gently embraced the silhouettes of children, embraced the secrets, the beliefs and the pure dreams on the road ahead. Who knows, those sweet and holy things would become the silt that the river would use to build up many new lands. Without the noise of high waves or high tides, the river flows silently and softly every day. What silt gently stays in my heart. A river's life, a human life always turns towards each other, no matter how they flow in many directions.

My village has eased the worries of flood season when the landslide wharf was built with high stone embankments. The river is sheltered, leaning on it, flowing calmly. The green bamboo bushes awaken, calling flocks of birds to fly back. Standing on the newly built bridge across the river, I know that I have never missed a beat of the river. After many ups and downs, the village river is still steadfast, still gentle, still green before my eyes like the old days. A few old children have gathered and are excitedly chatting endlessly. In the heart of each of those children, there is always a river flowing like the hometown river that has been passionately waiting for a lifetime to cherish the silt left behind...

Content: Moc Nhien

Photo: Internet Document

Graphics: Mai Huyen

Source: https://baothanhhoa.vn/e-magazine-phu-sa-o-lai-258107.htm