Once, I asked Tý about his dreams, wondering if he would spend his whole life confined to this field, surrounded by rice seasons and chasing flocks of ducks, watching them leave and then raising new flocks. Tý chuckled at my question: "I'll stay here. I can't live far from this place."
I asked that question, and I guessed she would answer the same way, because I myself didn't want to leave this land, the place that nurtured me, the place that sowed in my heart familiar images and the smells of the earth and my homeland. Most dear to me is the image of my grandmother, hunched over in her house in the middle of the fields, from which, every afternoon, fragrant white smoke rises, smelling of freshly cooked rice that she carefully prepared for her two grandchildren.
***
My younger brother Tý and I grew up in our grandmother's loving embrace. We grew up surrounded by the smell of straw and the smoke of the fields, our feet stained with fresh mud, and our eyes filled with the sight of water hyacinths drifting gently along the tranquil Lung Dừa canal. In our small house, my grandmother shouldered the burdens, raising us with the income from the rice harvests and the ducks she raised in the fields. Tý, only thirteen or fourteen years old, was already imbued with the colors of the sun, wind, and earth. I don't know when, but he became the pillar of support, sharing the hardships with our grandmother. He often said, "You two are good students; it would be a waste not to study." At those times, his eyes shone brightly.
Many times I looked at my younger sister, so dark-skinned with sun-bleached hair, and felt so much pity for her. Meanwhile, my grandmother lovingly nurtured my hair, letting it grow long. She said that girls with long hair are beautiful, and that I must resemble my mother, with my lustrous hair. We knew about my mother through the stories she told. But we didn't know what she looked like, whether she was beautiful or not, and probably never will. My grandmother said that after my father passed away, my mother moved to the city and is now a city dweller.
The fields after harvest carried the lingering scent of straw and freshly harvested rice. I don't know what kind of magic that scent held, but it captivated my heart, making me vow to stay in this riverside, never to leave like my mother. But I worried that Tý would be too preoccupied with the fields and the ducks, and end up a life of hardship. With the thoughts of a young man, I would often say to him seriously, "When you grow up, you must learn a trade, you must find a job!" Tý thought for a moment, then replied lightly, "Hai, farming rice is fine, raising ducks is fine, doing any other job is fine, as long as it's hard work, as long as it's honest work, right Hai? Besides, I haven't dropped out of school. Even farmers have to learn all sorts of things these days, Hai."
After saying that, Tý happily ran after the flock of ducks, the sun once again tanning his already tanned skin. From afar, I saw him like a scarecrow standing in the field when the rice turned golden. Carefree and only thinking of the people he loved. He only knew that each season the ducks grew and laid eggs, each season the rice ripened and the land was prepared for the new crop, helping to ease his grandmother's backaches and her worries. He didn't find it hard at all. For him, wandering with the flock of ducks was a game. He knew by heart the ebb and flow of the tides, knew exactly where there were plenty of snails for the ducks to eat, and knew when it was about to rain from the way dragonflies flew low…
***
It had been a long time since we'd sat together in the fields. The afternoon was hazy with smoke. Streaks of pure white smoke drifted lazily from the fields on the other side. After the harvest, the old straw became fertilizer, enriching the soil and preparing for the new season. We'd spent countless seasons working in the fields, and each time we sold a flock of ducks, Tý would shed tears. Yet, rarely did we feel as relaxed as we did this afternoon. In the fields, we could hear the wind whistling through the white blossoms of the reeds. Above, the sky was a reddish hue, with a few remaining golden rays of sunlight falling gently onto the fields. A peaceful country afternoon, like so many afternoons in this land over the years. I blurted out, "Do you long to see Mom someday?" She asked me in surprise, "Aren't you angry with Mom?" I said softly, "No, why would I be angry? She's our mother." My sister murmured, "Oh, right," her voice soft and endearing.
It's my mother, not anyone else, so why would I be angry or resentful? She has her own choices. I learned tolerance and forgiveness from my grandmother, and the love of this land and its people. My grandmother taught me that everything happens for a reason, like my mother leaving, like my younger sibling still insisting on staying here, surrounded by rice paddies and ducks roaming the fields without ever leaving. As I grew older, I understood that I should respect other people's choices. When I understood that, I felt peaceful and fulfilled. Like last year's stormy night, the storm suddenly struck when the ducks were in the middle of an open field, the water rose quickly and the wind gusted relentlessly. The ducks scattered in the darkness. My younger sibling, using all the instincts of a child raised on the land, single-handedly rushed out into the pouring rain to herd the ducks back, despite my grandmother and I calling out to them. When the ducks returned, my sibling was exhausted, their feet cut by shards of pottery, blood mixing with the mud.
The next morning, after the storm had passed, the sun shone brightly on the fields. I paddled the boat to take my younger sibling to the commune's health station to have their wound stitched up and get vaccinated. Sitting at the bow, Tý grinned, his eyes shining brightly in the new sunlight, because the ducks were safe, even though a few were lost.
I looked around the field and was surprised to see resilient young rice seedlings sprouting, and my sister was gazing at them. We understood that no matter what life throws at us, as long as our hearts remain connected to the land, the land will never let us down. And from the land, green shoots will sprout.
Short story: HOANG KHANH DUY
Source: https://baocantho.com.vn/mui-cua-dat-a204168.html
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