Dream of dawn

For over half a month, Sang was sick and alone in the hospital. No one brought him food or drink, and not a single friend came to visit, even though Sang always invited a large group of friends to his drinking parties. Sang had always prided himself on being a "fair-playing" person, as his drinking buddies praised him, so he generously provided for his friends with whatever money he earned. He was also a "hero" who often rescued friends in times of need. Once, waiting until nightfall, Sang quietly led the cow his mother had painstakingly raised to the neighboring village to sell it and give the money to a friend who was being chased by debt collectors. His house leaked constantly during the rainy season, even the bed had to be propped up with a bucket to catch the water, but Sang readily spent two days climbing onto his friend's roof to help his father repair the corrugated iron sheets. Sang's mother, watching from outside the house, saw her son struggling up and down the roof, and wondered if she had mistakenly brought home a child of someone else when she gave birth to Sang...

Whenever Sang's friends got into trouble, they would always turn to him. More than once, Sang's parents were startled awake in the middle of the night by the loud banging on the door from his "dear friends," while their "troublesome" son would jump up, put on his clothes, and run off, regardless of the thunder or lightning, let alone his parents' pleas. But, as the saying goes, "but" is common in life. When Sang was sick or in trouble, even if he called out, none of his friends would answer. When asked, some were far from home, others were busy with work, and those closest to him—like the ones who helped him sell his mother's cows to pay off his debts or who would jump up to repair his roof in the rain—had vanished for all sorts of reasons.

Outside, the sound of the river's water lapping against the shore was like the sound of Sang's father mooring the boat to the pole. One day, the sky was as gloomy as today. His father returned from the riverbank in his bulky raincoat, tossing the string of still-wriggling fish into the water basin. He told Sang to light the fire and put the pot of porridge on the stove while he hurriedly prepared the fish. As father and son slurped their late-night meal, it was already pitch dark. Sang's father's shadow was cast on the wall, his back bent like a shrimp, making Sang's eyes sting. The steam rising from the fish porridge made Sang secretly rub his wet eyes.

Tonight, lying in his dilapidated house, riddled with termites, Sang suddenly felt a pang of longing for his father. He remembered the steaming hot fish porridge his father had sprinkled with pepper and a few sprigs of cilantro picked from the water jar. Up above, the sky was full of stars. Sitting on the porch, looking out at the bumpy road, his feet touching the rough brick pavement, listening to the wind whistling through the river, Sang heard what sounded like his father puffing on his pipe, muttering instructions to come home early, not to chase after his friends in the town and ruin his life. His father's forehead was furrowed, but his eyes and smile were as gentle as the earth.

The spot by the doorway where Sáng and his two siblings used to spread mats for meals is now riddled with termite mounds. When their mother was alive, Sáng would return home at dusk to find her busily preparing dinner. The pot of rice, overflowing with corn kernels, would be scooped into her own bowl, and the bowl of fluffy white rice would be pushed towards her tall, strong son, who had to bend down to pass by. Each meal consisted of a few boiled sweet potato leaves dipped in fish sauce and a mixed assortment of fish stewed with turmeric leaves, which Sáng and his siblings would devour completely. Their mother, sitting beside them, wouldn't have time to serve herself, her face glistening with sweat, yet she would smile with joy as if the whole family were having a feast. Their father recounted how their mother had been so resourceful after they got married; four years later, she had enough money to help him build a house. But now, the termites were threatening to collapse it, so their father only wished he could rebuild it a little more solidly. First, so that when Sáng got married, he would have a proper place to welcome his bride, and second, so that their ancestors could look down from above with pride. But, until the end of his father Sang's life, that wish remained a distant dream.

The full moon, perfectly round, cast its light through the window where Sáng lay huddled. The moonlight spilled across the land, coating every branch and blade of grass in a silvery white. The night and wind enveloped him, as if trying to lift him from the barren soil. The flickering images of his parents blurred his vision. A rooster crowed mournfully. Outside, the sky and earth seemed like mist, the wind from the river rushing across the fields before swirling into the garden, the tattered banana leaves fluttering in the breeze behind the house. Sáng suddenly felt cold. The same persistent, biting cold.

Sáng remembered that as her father grew older, he became increasingly lonely. Every time Sáng came home, she would see him hobbling to the riverbank in the late afternoon, leaning on his cane. He would walk slowly, thoughtfully gazing at the boats moored along the riverbank. He looked at the river with the same longing as a young man gazing into the eyes of his lover. The river flowed downstream from countless rapids and waterfalls. Her father's figure was precarious and lonely amidst the vastness, his formless loneliness flowing endlessly into the river. He stood silently, just watching. Then he quietly turned back. During his illness, he would lie still without speaking, his withered face devoid of expression. The hammock would gently rock, and he would stare blankly at the sky through the small window, his gaze filled with the anxious worry about Sáng's uncertain future.

Night was fading into dawn. The stars, huddled together, cast a faint, pale blue light against the dim, dark sky. Sang saw them as if a thousand eyes were watching. But only one eye appeared, causing Sang to jump up, put on his coat, and go to the river. His father's boat was still moored to the pole stuck precariously in the river, flowing endlessly towards the sea, towards the endlessness of life. His father's brown coat, tied to the pole, was still there. Sang groped his way out. The wind, whistling through his clothes, made a chilling sound. Never before had a winter been so cold across this land. Sang pulled his coat up to cover his neck, which was wracked with a dry cough. More than ever, Sang understood that the only thing that could warm him at this moment was his mother's wood-burning stove, the stove where his parents regularly added firewood day and night to keep the fire burning.

Sáng stood there, his eyes fixed on the boat bobbing playfully on the water. Through the mist, Sáng saw what looked like the silhouette of a man stooping beside a pole, his hand gripping the anchor rope, his eyes fixed on the water as if searching for shallow or deep spots to prevent the boat from running aground. “Father!” Sáng whispered. The man looked up, his strong forehead furrowed and his gentle, kind smile still present. The waves lapped softly. The mist shifted, drifting from the opposite bank to this one, spreading a thin, light blanket across the river. Sáng reached the water’s edge. His feet touched the river, numb with cold, but he continued to move forward. The water rose to his ankles, then to his knees. Sáng’s hand touched the boat. The image of his father suddenly vanished like mist. Sáng stood silently, watching the moon slowly drift towards the shore, becoming stranded among the water hyacinths. Tears welled up in his eyes.

"Go home, son! Go to sleep! It's very cold out here at night!" his father's voice whispered, as if coming from a very distant place.

High above, a thousand tiny stars twinkled down onto the river, which was shattering into countless pieces. Sáng thought he saw his father's eyes smiling. Behind him, his mother was also wading in the water, walking backward and raking for clams buried deep in the sand. Suddenly, Sáng's mind conjured up the image of the wood-burning stove with its flickering embers, and the meal on the mat on the porch. He could smell the aroma of boiling rice, the simmering fish stew with turmeric cooking over the wood fire. Sáng closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and again smelled the scent of straw, wood smoke, and even the scent of plants after the rain. Sáng choked back tears and buried his face in the worn-out shirt his father had left behind on the fishing net. The shirt was cool and damp with night dew, yet he could still smell his father's sweat, a scent he would probably never forget, even decades later. The scent of love, of hardship…

With tears in her eyes, Sang made a silent decision. She would stay! She would start over! Her parents had nothing when they first got married. Now, Sang had a house, a small one, but still a dream home for many. And there, the fishing nets were still full of fish and shrimp every night. Sang would return here to breathe the air of the fields and the river breeze. Sang would work like her father, like the strong, hardworking men in the village. Sooner or later, Sang would have a warm family like her parents once had, children who would love their father and mother, and the place where they were born… Sang would definitely start over!

The rooster crowed at dawn. For the first time since his parents passed away, Sang was able to sleep peacefully…

Short story by Vu Ngoc Giao

Source: https://baocantho.com.vn/giac-mo-ve-sang-a195072.html