Uncle Tam was checking the expenses this time, while Auntie was squatting on the porch making pickled cabbage. This dish was homemade for the crew to eat as a side dish, it was a bit of work, but the cost was less than half of what was bought outside, Auntie muttered.
From the salty sea breeze, I looked out at the red flags with yellow stars on the cabins of the boats moored close together. Suddenly, memories of my crying days in Mr. Nhi’s kindergarten class came flooding back. It had been more than 20 years since I last returned to Binh Chau (Ba Ria-Vung Tau), a land of generous humanity but filled with sweet childhood memories.
Busy boats
It was fate, I think, when my parents chose Binh Chau as their place to settle down. Coming to this land when I was only 6 years old, my initial confusion was quickly erased by the joy and forgetfulness of children. The place I lived was a wooden house near the sea, surrounded by other dilapidated houses, with a sandy road that sank into my feet and strips of salt water that were washed in by the waves. Uncle Tam and Uncle Muoi's houses were also built right next to each other. The three brothers supported each other as they rode the fierce waves to bring back nets full of fish and shrimp.
Back then, this place was still very wild. Every time we went to my maternal grandparents’ house, we had to wait for a bus for more than an hour. There was a time when my mother told me to wait and then go home to get more stuff. That day, the bus arrived early, but my mother still hadn’t returned. I was confused and then tearfully ran to look for it. When I returned, my stuff was still there. The driver was standing there chatting about the new fish that had just arrived that morning, or the pumpkins that traders had brought to the market to sell at wholesale prices. No one complained about having to wait for a long time. They were used to gossiping, but they never made immigrants like us feel lonely. The love of the people here was as sweet as the way they seasoned their food, so even though those days were really hard, my parents never thought of leaving that land, even for a few moments. It’s just that sometimes life chooses forks that force us to continue.
This return to Binh Chau was also a deliberate coincidence. I visited Uncle Tam, the only one of the three brothers still clinging to the waves crashing on the shore, when in just two days it would be my father’s death anniversary, and also the 100th day since Uncle Muoi passed away. So fast, like the flap of dragonflies announcing rain along the sand dunes.
Twenty years is enough to change a once tearful little girl into a quiet, tearful girl. Twenty years is enough to turn simple makeshift wooden houses into spacious mansions, to turn quicksand into asphalt, to turn the land next to the sea that used to smell of fresh fish into a new, spacious and busy road. I stood bewildered on the land I once knew, suddenly becoming a stranger in the eyes of the children in the neighborhood. There was a bit of nostalgia. How many times in a person's life can we have twenty years?
I was very surprised when on the way back to my uncle's house were famous and large-scale resorts. The sea was exploited in many ways, so the face of the land and people here was gradually changing. It was still the same cheerful and heroic atmosphere as before, but less hard work, more laughter when seeing children going to school. Many families in the neighborhood had bought cars. The expanded roads were also more convenient for the circulation of goods and transportation. There were no more "waiting" cars like before. Apart from a bit of nostalgia, I was truly happy for the strong transformation of this lovely land.
I came back unexpectedly, but my aunt still had time to prepare a lot of food, with the specialty of raw fish salad and hot pot dishes. We still kept the habit of spreading mats on the floor to eat. Everyone sat together, sipping on a glass of spicy wine and telling each other trivial stories of daily life. The initial strangeness was gradually replaced by smiles.
After many years of saving, Uncle Tam was able to buy his own boat and hire crew members to go with him, so it was less difficult than before. His hair was streaked with silver, making his sunburnt skin stand out even more. His eyes stared out at the sea. His voice gradually became hoarse, then choked, as if urging: "Your father and Uncle Muoi have both passed away, now only I am left. Quickly find a place to dock, while I am still healthy, so I can take care of you." Having said that, he paused. Suddenly my eyes turned red, feeling sorry for those shoulders that were already burdened with so much weight but still tried to carry the burden of a large family, like my father, Uncle Muoi, Uncle Tam. The sea gave us a way to live, but also took away from us the most precious things. My father, died on a distant voyage...
After a moment of contemplation, I hugged his thin, protruding shoulders. We sat there watching the boats busily preparing for their journey, listening to the murmur of the waves lapping in the distance, like the call of the sea from a distant land twenty years ago.
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