I call the clouds that drift across the sky at dusk "distant clouds." Perhaps because the word "distant" seems to have become intertwined with my life, so the clouds are distant clouds. My mother named me Viễn – meaning far away, implying that when I grew up I would fly high and far. But later, everyone said that my name was beautiful yet sad. Reflecting on my more than thirty years of life, I have experienced joy, sorrow, happiness, and even loss. At those times, I remember my mother often saying: "That's life; everyone experiences all kinds of emotions. That's how we grow wiser each day."
I believed my mother's words. I always believed that my life wouldn't be as sad as the name Viễn, which my mother gave me on a day I was born at the foot of the mountain behind my maternal grandparents' house, before she and my father left our homeland. And I would return to my maternal grandparents' village, as my mother had always wished.
In my memory, my maternal grandparents' hometown was a very distant place! It seems that I only met my grandmother twice before my mother passed away, and I only visited her hometown once. That visit didn't leave much of an impression on me, because I was very young at the time. My mother carried me on a bus to the mountains, but after all the hardships of the long journey, my grandfather didn't allow her to enter the house. Later, my mother told me this with tears in her eyes.
My grandmother's image has faded with time. The first time I remember seeing her was when I was in third grade. One rainy night, hearing a knock on the door, my mother hurried to find my grandmother, soaking wet, standing unsteadily in the lightning that split the dark night in two. My mother cried. My grandmother said she missed us both so much that she made her way here, traveling by bus and motorbike several times before finally arriving. We were overjoyed and tearful to see each other. That night, my grandmother slept with my mother and me. Outside, the rain poured down. In the small room, my mother and I lay close to my grandmother, listening to her ask about this and that. I glanced at my mother. In the dim light, I saw tears welling up in her eyes. The fragrant incense from my father's altar wafted through the air. My father had recently passed away. The rumbling thunder outside the window suddenly faded away, leaving only the warm voice of my grandmother in the room…
***
I still remember one afternoon with sparse clouds, as gentle as a leaf falling onto a still lake. Distant clouds drifted lazily across the house and the vast meadows behind it. That afternoon, my mother passed away. My heart was so heavy I couldn't cry. All I knew was an emptiness in my heart that would surely never be filled. I softly kissed my mother's thin hands, the hands that had shielded and endured the storms of time. Before closing her eyes, my mother smiled gently and whispered:
- I'm going home to find Grandma. She's still waiting in the place where there's the scent of incense and the sound of wind chimes from the mountains.
Then Mother left. Gently. Kindly. Lightly. Like a dry leaf falling into the void, carried away by the wind to a distant land.
As the years passed, I suppressed my pain and accepted loss as a law of life that no one can avoid. I began a journey to find my maternal grandparents' home. I searched through everything that remained in my mother's drawers, including things she had kept locked away her whole life after leaving home with my father, despite my grandfather's objections.
Finally, I found an old piece of paper with a faded place name written on it: Cloud Village. I tried to recall everything in my memory, then blamed myself for spending my youth yearning for so many strange lands, so many places both domestically and internationally, only to forget my maternal hometown – where my mother spent her youth and where I was born. My eyes welled up with tears; perhaps my mother unconsciously avoided her hometown, where my grandfather's anger, which had lasted for so many years, still lingered.
***
I set off on a beautiful sunny season. Before leaving, I stopped by my mother's grave and prayed, "Mother, please guide me to find my way back to my maternal homeland!" My mother's grave lies amidst a green meadow, next to my father's. It's profoundly peaceful. This season, the meadow is covered in a vast expanse of white blossoms.
I set off. The sun stretched like sweet honey across the fields. I boarded a passenger bus heading to the mountains. "Where are you going, young man?" the bus conductor asked me. Startled, I quickly replied, "Cloud Village, sir!" The conductor looked bewildered, while the old driver turned to look at me: "Wow, it's been a long time since I heard someone call that village by its old name. You must be visiting for the first time, yet you know its old name. Don't worry, I'll show you the way."
I nodded in thanks. The bus started moving. The bus to May Village didn't have luxurious sleeper seats, just an old one. I felt a pang of sadness because it seemed many people had forgotten about and didn't know about May Village. I felt the same way! The bus passed through many villages along the river, across many fields, hillsides, and winding mountain passes. The road to the mountains was deep and winding. The road to my homeland.
The sun was just a dark red, pomegranate-colored mass hanging low over the mountaintop when the driver called out to me, "There's Cloud Village!"
I stepped out of the car, my legs trembling after the long, arduous journey. The car disappeared around the bend, leaving me in an eerily silent space.
I walked along the road leading into the mountain village. It was getting dark. I felt a little apprehensive, but not afraid, because suddenly I had a feeling of closeness and familiarity. I was certain this was a foreign land, no doubt about it. The air was a deep, peaceful blue. The wind rustled through the pine trees, and the pungent scent of pine resin filled my nostrils.
I unexpectedly stopped at a small, solitary wooden house nestled on the hillside, its eaves obscured by vibrant red bougainvillea, and wind chimes tinkling in the breeze. An old woman sat meticulously stripping dry grass to make brooms, oblivious to the stranger standing before her. "Excuse me, ma'am, may I ask you something…?" I murmured. She looked up at me, a toothless smile playing on her lips, and listened as I continued, "Ma'am, are there any old women in this village around your age whose daughters have married far away despite their families' disapproval?" She gazed deeply into my eyes, her gaze clouded by the mists of time. She smiled, a gentle smile like the last rays of sunlight at the end of the day. From inside the house, the fragrant scent of incense wafted out, evoking countless feelings of longing and nostalgia: "In this Cloud Village, I think I'm the only old woman like you left. All the other old people have gone to be with the clouds. Don't be sad, stay here with Grandma. Whether you find someone or not, this village will always be your homeland, your native land."
I sat down beside her, silently watching her hands glide smoothly over the dry grass. The scent of incense filled my heart. I sat there listening to the sound of time passing, the sound of pebbles falling into my lap, and the rustling of the dry grass woven evenly on the already formed broom handle. Somewhere in the distance, I saw my mother's tears and my grandmother's frail figure in the stormy nights of days gone by…
I suddenly realized why my mother wanted me to take a trip back to my maternal grandparents' village. It wasn't really to meet a specific person, but so I could know that, amidst the hustle and bustle of the world, there's still a village called Mây, a place I can return to, a place to feel less alone in life.
The scent of incense and the sound of wind chimes in my memory linger with each beat of my heart.
Source: https://baocantho.com.vn/loi-ve-xu-ngoai-a202528.html
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