April Memories

(Illustration: Huu Phuong)

The afternoon sun, filtering through the swaying reeds, highlighted the soft, shimmering downy fibers of the grass on the vast meadow – the ideal spot for children to fly kites in the evenings. Occasionally, I would go there and watch the colorful kites of various shapes and sizes soaring in the sky. The eager eyes and sparkling smiles of the children, as they followed their kites, as if wanting to fly high with them, filled me with the joy of childhood… Children today have more entertainment options than children of the past. Back then, if we kids had a kite like that, we would have been absolutely thrilled, spending all day admiring, cherishing, and being incredibly proud of it!

Back then, my mother often took us back to my maternal grandparents' village to play. Even just the everyday activities and simple pleasures of my cousins were enough to fascinate a city kid like me. When the tide was high, my cousins Phuc and Hanh would often invite us to go fishing for gobies by the dam.

"Is anyone interested in joining me for some fishing?" Ms. Phuc asked, squinting and giving me a mischievous smile.

With just a casual invitation, I eagerly followed her. I lugged along basins, baskets, and bait. I watched intently as Ms. Phuc cast her fishing rod into the thicket of mangrove trees, and I didn't have to wait long:

"Twist! Twist!... A fish's biting the hook, Ms. Phuc!" I shouted excitedly when I saw the fishing rod being pulled away.

Ms. Phuc yanked the net and quickly caught the goby fish into her bamboo basket. The fishing rod had no hook, just a simple branch of a Terminalia catappa tree tied with a string and a bunch of earthworms – such a crude "weapon," but in the hands of a skilled fisherman like Ms. Phuc, it was incredibly effective! Before long, my sister and I had a large basin full of gobies; we were sure to have a delicious goby stew with pepper this afternoon, thanks to Ms. Hanh's cooking skills. As the afternoon sun set, I followed my youngest brother, Phuoc, out to the field in front of my grandmother's house to fly a kite. It was the "magical" kite that Phuoc had painstakingly made all afternoon. He sharpened bamboo and coconut fiber into a rhombus-shaped frame for the kite's head, and he even stylishly cut red paper to make whiskers to stick on either side of the kite's head for added vibrancy. I helped him cut several pieces of newspaper to make two tails so that when it flew, it would curve beautifully. Although I did try to straighten the kite's tail, with my rudimentary crafting skills, after cutting several sections, the kite's tail ended up deformed, with some parts thick and others thin, unevenly shaped. Yet, in the end, Mr. Phuoc happily "approved the product." Seeing my somewhat unhappy expression, Mr. Phuoc looked at me with a witty smile and encouraged me:

- No problem! As long as the kite has a tail so it can fly, that's all that matters!

So the two brothers glued it together. Back then, there was no glue, no way to make paste, only leftover cooked rice as adhesive, so the joints were uneven with chunks of rice, looking quite unsightly. Nevertheless, when they went out into the fields, the kite looked quite impressive as it flew!

…A few years later, one day near the end of April, my mother hurriedly took the two youngest children, my older brother Six and me, to our maternal grandparents' house. Gunfire was everywhere; no place was safe. This time, I couldn't play like before. Bombs and bullets flew overhead, and we didn't know where they would land. Everyone was terrified and panicked. My aunt and uncle's houses were near the strategic hamlet, and seeing how dangerous it was, everyone decided to run to Uncle Bay's house further away for safety. To get there, we had to cross the fields, not daring to go on the main road. A nine-year-old girl like me ran and cried, witnessing for the first time the clothes, hats, guns, supplies, personal belongings, and dead bodies along the way… The word "war" haunted the nine-year-old girl from that moment on. Occasionally, bullets whizzed over our heads, making the whole group, young and old, terrified. We would crouch down before continuing on, hoping to reach a safe shelter as quickly as possible.

Finally, we arrived at Mr. Bay's house, where we found many relatives gathered. That's when we finally calmed down. Mr. Bay was a kind and helpful man, so he welcomed everyone who came and arranged proper accommodations. His house was large and quite sturdy, so many people took refuge there. Everyone felt a little more at ease; without saying a word, we all prayed for the fighting to stop, for peace to return to the country, so that everyone could live peacefully again as before. I'll never forget our first meal at Mr. Bay's house – the purple sweet potato soup and fried shrimp were incredibly delicious! After eating, everyone gathered to rest. Suddenly, Aunt Ba Bao pulled out an umbrella from the bag she and her mother had hastily packed from home:

"Good heavens! Look how my mom bent the umbrella and stuffed it neatly into the bag! I wonder how she was so strong back then?" As she spoke, the aunt held up the bent umbrella that Mrs. Hai had broken, and everyone burst into laughter.

Grandma Hai, nearly ninety, a few years younger than my grandmother, was still healthy but sometimes remembered, sometimes forgot, just like my grandmother. Aunt Six sat leaning against the wall, fanning my grandmother while telling everyone how each of my grandmother's senility had given her family a scare: One night, my grandmother wore a white ao dai (traditional Vietnamese dress) and stood talking to herself in the mirror. My sister Hanh, who was sleeping, woke up startled by my grandmother's voice, thought it was a ghost, and screamed in panic. My grandmother often couldn't remember any of her relatives; when she saw her daughter come home, she would ask:

Who are you looking for? My mother isn't home!

- Mom, don't you know who I am?

No! Come in and sit down for a drink, my mom'll be back soon.

My grandmother's face was expressionless, as innocent as a child's.

I felt so sorry for Grandma when I heard that! Aunt Six felt a little disheartened:

- I wonder if I'll become senile like my mother-in-law when I'm old?!...

Uncle Nam, rubbing his son's back, joined the conversation. His son had suffered from intellectual disability since childhood, staying indoors and refusing to go anywhere. It took half a day to get him from the ferry dock to here, and he was already asking to go home. Aunt Tu, the bread seller, looked worried and anxious, wondering how her husband was doing. This morning, Uncle Nam said he was going to get bread to sell, but Aunt Tu wouldn't listen. He still hadn't returned, and she didn't know how to contact him. Everyone had their own circumstances and feelings, so no one could sleep all night. I don't remember exactly what happened in the following days, only that after a few days at Uncle Bay's house, peace came , the gunfire stopped, and our mother took us back to our home in Tan An.

That day – April 30th of that year – has been fifty years since then, half a century! My grandmother's house is now a church, my uncle and aunt have passed away, and my sisters have their own families and live separately, so they only gather on the anniversaries of their deaths. Phuoc, my uncle's son – my grandmother's eldest grandson – married and moved to America more than 30 years ago. He's spent more than half his life abroad, but his heart still aches for his homeland, so he decided to return to Vietnam to live. On the first day Phuoc returned, everyone in the neighborhood was overjoyed. His friends, some gone, some still alive, reminisced about the old days with a mix of emotions… The most memorable moment was seeing my grandmother's old ancestral altar still in its original place in the corner near the bedroom door. When the door opened, he was stunned! Inside were many old items next to a paper kite neatly folded in a plastic bag. The kite that he made himself decades ago, with my help in it, those clumsy snips of a first-grade girl back then. A whole sky of childhood memories flooded back, making him and me burst into tears like children who had lost their mothers.

Years have passed, and the country has changed considerably, but the memories of our homeland, with all its joys and sorrows, remain intact within each of us. The simple, rustic kites of children in the past, or the vibrant, colorful kites of children today, though different in circumstances, space, and time, share a common beautiful memory in the hearts of every child: the kite of childhood with its pure dreams. No matter how high or far they fly, their hearts always yearn for their homeland with boundless love. Like the poignant melody and lyrics of the song "Homeland."

“Homeland is a cluster of sweet starfruit, where I climb to pick fruit every day… Homeland is a blue kite, which I flew in the fields during my childhood. Homeland is a small boat, gently stirring the water along the riverbank… Each person has only one homeland, just as they have only one mother. If anyone forgets their homeland, they will never grow up to be a complete person…”

Those April days fifty years ago gave us unforgettable emotions, teaching us to cherish the great lesson about the value of peace. That peace was bought with the blood and tears of countless people who sacrificed themselves for our homeland today and tomorrow…/.

Kieu Oanh

Source: https://baolongan.vn/hoi-uc-thang-tu-a194111.html