Dream of the morning

For more than half a month, Sang was alone in the hospital, no one brought him food, and not a single friend came to visit him, even though during his drinking parties, Sang always invited many friends. Sang had always been proud of being "a fair player" as his drinking friends praised, so no matter how much work he did, Sang let his friends do as they pleased. He also often acted as a "hero" to save his friends in times of danger. One time, he waited until nighttime to take the cow that his mother had raised and sell it to the next neighborhood to get money to give to his friend who was in debt. The house leaked so much during the rainy season that even the bed had to be placed on a basin, but Sang was willing to spend two days climbing up on his friend's roof to help his father re-roof some corrugated iron sheets. This caused Sang's mother to stand outside and look in and see her son climbing up and down. She was confused, wondering if when Sang was resuscitated, she would bring home someone else's child or not...

Whenever Sang's friends were in trouble, they would come to Sang. Many times at night, Sang's parents were startled by the loud knocking on the door from his "dear friends", and the "god-damned" son would jump up, put on his clothes and run away, even if the sky roared, he wouldn't care, let alone his parents' advice. But, the "but" in life is also common, when Sang was sick and in trouble, no friend would answer him with a "hey". When asked, one was away from home, one was busy talking, and the close friends who used to take his mother's cow to sell to pay off debts or jump up to re-roof his house when it rained, disappeared for all sorts of reasons in the world.

Outside, the sound of the river water lapping sounded like the sound of Sang's father's footsteps anchoring the boat to the pole. One day, the sky was as gloomy as today, and his father returned from the river wharf in a loose raincoat, throwing a string of fish still wriggling beside the water jar. His father told Sang to light the fire to cook the porridge while he hurriedly prepared the fish. By the time father and son were slurping down their supper, it was already dark, Sang's father's shadow was cast on the wall, his back curved like a shrimp, making Sang's eyes sting. The steaming pot of fish porridge also gave off a few streaks of smoke, making Sang furtively rub his wet eyes.

Tonight, lying in the house where termites were gnawing away at him, Sang suddenly missed his father so much that he choked up, missed the pot of hot boiling fish porridge that his father sprinkled in some pepper and added a few coriander stalks picked from the water jar. Up there in the sky full of stars, sitting on the porch looking out at the thorn-strewn road, his feet touching the rough brick floor, listening to the river wind blowing across the road, Sang heard his father smoking a cigarette, muttering advice to come home early after playing, not to follow his friends in the district town and waste his life. His father's forehead was furrowed, but his eyes and smile were as gentle as the earth.

The threshold where Sang's father used to spread a mat to prepare rice, now termites have piled up. When Mother was still alive, every time Sang came home at dusk, she would see Mother hurriedly preparing rice, the pot of rice and corn was overflowing up to the lid, Mother sat and shoveled each kernel of corn into her bowl, pushing the bowl of white rice like cotton to her tall son who had to bend down every time he passed the door. Every meal had a few boiled sweet potato shoots dipped in fish sauce and a mess of fish stewed with turmeric leaves that Sang's father had to beat up. Mother sat by the side, not having time to shovel, sweating profusely but smiling happily as if the whole family was having a banquet. Father said, after getting married, Mother had saved up so well, four years later she had some money to give him to build a house, but now the termites were about to collapse, so he only wished to have a little bit to rebuild a more solid house, first so that when Sang got married, he would have a place to properly welcome his bride, and second so that the ancestors sitting up there could look down and feel proud. But, until the end of Mr. Sang's life, the wish was still just a distant dream.

The full moon cast its shadow through the window where Sang lay curled up. The moon spilled over the ground, coating every branch and blade of grass with a silvery white layer. The night and wind surrounded him as if they wanted to lift him off the barren land. The shadows of his parents lingered in his mind, making his eyes dim. The roosters crowed. Outside, the sky and earth were like mist, the wind from the river rushed over, chasing each other across the fields and into the garden, behind the summer, a few tattered banana leaves fluttered. Sang suddenly felt cold. The cold was still lingering.

Sang remembers that the older his father gets, the lonelier he becomes. Every time he comes home, Sang sees his father slowly walking with his cane to the wharf. His father walks slowly, pensively looking at the boats moored along the riverbank. His father looks longingly at the river like a young man looking into the eyes of his lover. The river flows downstream from the myriad rapids. His father's shadow is precarious, lonely in the vastness, the formless loneliness flowing endlessly into the river. His father stands still, just looking. Then he quietly turns back. During the days of his illness, his father just lies still, not saying anything, his withered face no longer showing anything. The hammock still sways gently, his father looks blankly at the sky through the small window, in his gaze is the anxiety about Sang's uncertain future.

The night gradually turned to morning. The stars were huddled together, faintly emitting a faint blue light in the dark sky. Sang saw as if there were a hundred thousand eyes on it. But only one eye appeared, making Sang jump up, with his coat on. Sang went to the river. His father's boat was still anchored to a pole stuck diagonally beside the river that flowed endlessly towards the sea, towards the endless life. The brown three-posted shirt on the pole was still there. Sang groped his way out. The wind blew through his shirt, making a chilling sound. Never before had such a cold winter passed through this strip of land. Sang pulled the flap of his shirt to cover his neck, which was erupting into a dry cough. More than ever, Sang understood that only his mother's wood stove could warm him now, the stove that his parents regularly added wood to keep the fire burning day and night.

Sang still stood there, his eyes fixed on the boat that was bobbing as if playing on the water. Behind the mist, Sang saw the shadow of a man working hard beside a pole, holding the anchor rope in his hand while his eyes watched the water as if looking for a shallow place so the boat wouldn’t run aground. “Dad!” Sang called out silently. The man looked up, his strong forehead still furrowed and his smile was warm and friendly. The waves were lapping loudly. The mist moved from the other bank and quickly swept across this bank, spreading a thin, light blanket on the river’s surface. Sang walked to the water’s edge. His feet touched the river, it was so cold it was numb, but he still walked forward. The water reached his ankles. Then his knees. Sang’s hand touched the boat. His father’s image suddenly vanished like mist. Sang stood still, watching the shadow of a moon slowly drifting back and getting stranded among the water hyacinths. Sang’s tears welled up.

“Go home, son! Go to sleep! It's cold out here at night!” Dad's voice whispered as if it came from far away.

Up above, thousands of little stars twinkled down into the riverbed that was breaking into a million pieces. Sang seemed to see his father's eyes smiling. Behind his father, his mother was also immersed in the water, walking backward while raking some mussels buried deep in the sand. In Sang's mind, suddenly appeared the wood stove with a few glowing embers, appeared the rice tray on the mat on the porch. He heard somewhere the smell of boiling rice, the smell of fish stewed with turmeric simmering on the wood stove. Sang closed his eyes and took a breath, again smelling the smell of straw, of wood smoke, and the smell of grass after the rain. Sang choked up and rubbed his face against the old shirt that his father had left on the basket, the shirt was cold and wet with night dew but he could still smell his father's sweat, a smell that perhaps even after several decades, Sang still couldn't forget. The smell of love, of hardship...

Sang wiped away his tears and silently decided. Sang would stay! He would start over! When his parents got married, they had nothing. Sang now had a house, a small one, but still a dream home for many people. And over there, the fishing nets were still full of fish and shrimp every night. Sang would come back here to breathe in the breath of the fields and the river breeze. Sang would work hard like his father, like the strong men in the village. Sooner or later, Sang would have a warm family like his parents had, would have children who knew how to love their father and mother, love the place where they were born... Sang would definitely start over!

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