Storm season

QTO - I was born in the Central region, where the Lao wind is scorching hot every summer, the rain is freezing cold in the winter and storms often fall, making the sky and earth tilt. Sometimes the storms are fleeting, like a warning, but sometimes they are fierce, leaving deep marks in everyone's memory. Facing natural disasters, the people of my hometown are like resilient trees, bowing to the wind without ever breaking.

Before the storm arrived, the loudspeakers in the neighborhood blared incessantly, reminding each family to prepare for the storm. Adults and children ran out into the alleys and yards. Everyone’s faces were worried, but their eyes still shone with calm, as if they were used to the challenges of the earth and sky. The women and mothers were busy washing rice, arranging fish sauce jars, oil bottles, and arranging the essentials in the house. The men climbed the tiled roofs, tied bamboo tightly, reinforced the fences, and added more panels. The whole neighborhood seemed to breathe in unison, preparing for the upcoming “wrath”.

My house was the same. As a deeply ingrained habit, my mother meticulously closed the windows, pushed the tables and chairs into a corner, and filled the jars with water in case of power or water outages. Her face was solemn, her movements slow but decisive, like a soldier accustomed to battle. I knew why my mother was so careful, because many times she had to stay up all night, keeping a lamp on guard against each fierce wind. I could only sit quietly in the corner of the room, watching her thin figure under the yellow oil lamp, my heart filled with emotions: love for my mother, worry, and helplessness because I could not help. My father was far away at work and rarely came home. So on stormy days, only my mother and I leaned on each other to support each other.

Illustration: Le Ngoc Duy

The memories of those stormy nights still linger. The wind howled outside, the roof tiles creaked, and the whole house shook as if my tired body was struggling against an invisible force. In my childish eyes, there was not only wind and rain outside, but a giant monster roaring and destroying everything. I curled up, shivering, and buried my face in my mother's arms, as if looking for the safest shelter. Thank God, my house was built on a high, sturdy mound, so even though I was scared, I felt safe. However, at that moment, my anxiety rose again when I thought of Thao, my close friend at the end of the village, close to the edge of the big river. Every flood season, the water often flooded her yard. I wondered if Thao's small house was strong enough to withstand the fierce wind outside. Was my friend curled up in her mother's arms, as safe as I was now, or was she panicking and looking at the water waiting outside the gate?

The rain poured down, heavy and incessant, as if it wanted to sweep everything away. The familiar village road suddenly turned into a muddy stream, the water overflowing the fence, carrying fallen leaves and dry branches. The garden was desolate, swaying in the wind. However, the people of my village were still undaunted. Under the flickering oil lamplight casting shadows on the wet roofs, calloused hands patiently tied each panel of bamboo fence, patching up the gaps that let in the wind.

The storm season in my hometown is not only a matter of worrying about food and clothing, a struggle with nature, but also a season of human love. When the wind and storm outside are howling, in the village the oil lamps are still flickering. People stop by each other’s houses, exchange packages of rice, grains of salt, a few bottles of water or simply a handshake, a warm word of encouragement. Amidst the fog of rain and wind, people still see the flame of love, sharing and the Central Vietnam’s affection, as enduring as this land.

My mother often said: “Storms come and go, but love remains.” Indeed, after each storm, when the roof tiles are still in disarray and the gardens are bare, the people of my hometown rebuild their lives together. The sound of brooms sweeping the yard, the sound of people calling each other, the sound of laughter mixed with hardship… all blend together to create a song of revival.

I love the people of Central Vietnam, a place with narrow land, harsh weather, where storms have become a part of life. There are fierce waves but also big hearts, resilient as rocks, flexible as sea sand, of village love, of strong bonds. Like small but solid roofs in the midst of storms, the people of my hometown always stand firm against all the storms of life...

Linh Chau

Source: https://baoquangtri.vn/van-hoa/202510/mua-bao-dab07c2/