I remember the exchange during the flood days.
Day 1. “I haven’t seen anything yet. Just outside.” Noon of the 2nd day. “It’s right on your doorstep.” “What about Dad’s house?”. “They’re upstairs. The house across is ankle-deep.” “Have you finished cleaning yet?”. “I’m tying it up.” “Mom’s teeth?”. “Move the bed half a meter higher. If it’s too much, carry her to my house.” Evening. “They’re upstairs, knee-deep. Dad’s house is up to his chest. Move her to a higher place. She’s all the way up.”
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, silence.
The people in the countryside do not need to know the alarm levels, just take the year of the Dragon 1964 as the standard. Tell all the painful stories, just think that if we continue to tell about 1964, then this time, a cycle of 60 years later, will continue.
A few days ago, I called my uncle. His house was in Kim Bong village (Hoi An). It was quiet. Probably worried about the flood. A few days later, my uncle said: “Get lost, my child. That afternoon, the ward loudspeaker announced that the flood had reached level 3, the house was that high but it was still submerged. I only had a chance to move my grandfather’s altar up another meter, then take your grandmother upstairs. As for the remaining machinery, blankets, and clothes, throw them all away. The washing machine ran at full capacity for 10 days before running out of clothes, so you know what to do!” My uncle’s father was my grandfather’s younger brother.
My mother complained: “Uncle Ba fell hard. He was in the flood, climbing to move things, and broke his ribs. He climbed with his legs.” My aunt’s house was in Duy Vinh, right near the bridge over the old Duy Vinh commune committee. Her younger brother said: It’s 1.7 meters high, bro. It’s that high, but it’s all flooded! My uncle normally has to use a cane to walk. Poor him.
I looked at the flood on the altar. My grandparents had passed away a long time ago. My father had also passed away. On the altar, the pictures of my great-grandmother, grandparents, and then my father, looked motionless or behind them was a sigh, that his life up to his grandchildren's, had been filled with deep suffering and pain when heaven and earth were angry.
Luckily, everything is still there, even though it is soaked, better than many people who are still living on others, living in exile in their own homeland. And there are many people who lost their homes and belongings due to the flood, but this pain will be passed on to their next generation when they have a place to stay, and on the altar there will be another photo because their loved ones passed away in the flood.
Those who are at home are tired to death, worried crazy, and those who are far from home - children far from home, also stay up all night worrying about their siblings, parents and relatives. The feeling of fear and worry that slowly rises and then stops, completely different from the sudden fall, is not given a state of panic and calm, but like a blood vessel being cut enough to flow, slowly aching...
That was the kind of flood that happened recently. A colleague of mine lives right at the foot of the old Cau Lau bridge and is now working in the Central Highlands. When I reported the news that the bridge might be washed away and the government was monitoring it with all its might, he texted back: Is it true!? That alone was enough to show how distraught he was.
Every big flood is a time to measure the emotions of the so-called “my village”. Books have said that “water can be lost, but the village will not”. It is present today, tomorrow, and forever, because there is no village without children, grandchildren, relatives, neighbors far from home, the look back to share the pain of the village is stronger than any call, surpasses any discourse.
The young ones worry about their parents. The adults sigh anxiously, “there is my second sister and her grandchildren, then the graves, the altars of our ancestors…” The lists get longer, and each syllable, each word is a passage of deep affection. The rising water brings with it the pain and worry of the entire community, it makes the insides and outsides scream and throb.
I looked at the table, chairs, bed, and wardrobe that she had placed, still there, not taken down. Even though I knew that going back wouldn’t help, and saying more wouldn’t help, I still couldn’t help but say: “Keep it as it is, don’t take it down, or it might flood again.” Looking back at the flooded altar again, like the lines that tell the fate of people in the countryside, was to make the body, a flood, a storm, level everything… The feeling of nothingness came rushing over me, making me dizzy, remembering what my friend from Thanh Ha (Hoi An) said yesterday when he called to visit, he said with a bitter smile “the empty, silent place”…
Source: https://baodanang.vn/ngan-lut-o-ban-tho-3314007.html
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