The house on the slope

It's been over ten years since my youngest aunt got married. On her wedding day, I was just a little girl with missing teeth and dark skin. Seeing her in her white dress and veil, I wished I could dress like her when I grew up. The wedding was held at a restaurant; all the guests were smiling, except for my grandmother, whose eyes welled up with tears. My youngest aunt married someone far away, and after the wedding, she followed her husband. My grandparents only had her as their daughter, and she was the youngest, so they loved her very much. Back then, I was too young to understand the feelings of adults, and I just sat at the table, mesmerized by her.

My youngest aunt moved to her husband's house, so I rarely had the chance to see her. I only saw her visit home during holidays and festivals. My mother said that she and her husband were busy with their business. My youngest uncle had studied agriculture and forestry, and after graduating, he returned to his hometown to start a business. He worked on the farm and earned a very good income. My youngest aunt stayed home, taking care of the flowerbeds; on the 15th and 1st of each lunar month, she cut flowers to sell at the market. They had no children, not because of my youngest aunt, but because of my uncle. This saddened my grandparents even more. Whenever my mother mentioned my youngest aunt, she always lamented that they couldn't have children.

Whenever my youngest aunt is mentioned, my father usually falls silent, just like my grandparents and my uncles. My youngest aunt is a proud woman; she doesn't need anyone's pity. Although we rarely see each other, some mysterious connection tells me that she is happy with her husband, just as my parents are happy with their only daughter, me.

During my childhood, the image of my youngest aunt, who had been so close to me throughout my youth, gradually faded away, like seeing through a thin veil of mist. This continued until I went to university. Living away from home for the first time, I felt sad and apprehensive. During holidays, because of the limited time, I couldn't conveniently return home, so I often visited my aunt's house. Her house wasn't actually very close to my university. It took more than two hours by bus, plus another thirty minutes of walking, before the small, bright red tiled house nestled on the hillside finally appeared before my expectant eyes.

In front of the house, there were countless chrysanthemums and cosmos flowers. Walking along the gravel path leading to the front door, I felt as if I had wandered into a fairy tale. Aunt Ut, wearing a conical straw hat, was busily weeding and picking insects from the cabbage patch. Hearing my footsteps, she always greeted me with a gentle smile.

When I visited her house, I would often sit by the stone table, the wind chime hanging on the veranda chime softly, sunlight filtering through the leaves and casting shimmering silvery white patches on my feet. Closing my eyes gently, I felt a strange sense of peace; the pressures of studying faded away, leaving only the tranquil serenity of a breezy highland morning. High in the trees, birds chirped like playful children. She sat beside me, asking kindly about my grandparents, parents, and other relatives back home. I answered her questions meticulously, then offered her bags of seaweed that my grandmother and mother had prepared. She was always delighted: "It looks delicious, truly a specialty from our hometown. I'll make a salad with it; my uncle loves it."

After saying that, she got up and went into the kitchen to prepare the ingredients for the seaweed salad. I helped her. The two of us cooked and chatted lively, the highland breezes blowing through, swaying the window curtains, carrying the smell of damp earth and the strong fragrance of flowers. As the sun rose higher, the clock on the wall struck twelve, and Uncle Ut's motorbike screeched to a halt in the yard. He had just returned from the fields.

My uncle entered the house, wearing a wide-brimmed cloth hat, his steps firm, his voice booming. I greeted him, and he often smiled and praised me for growing up so fast. The meal was served on the stone table on the porch, hot and fragrant. Uncle Út praised the seaweed salad, saying it was delicious. Aunt Út, hearing this, said that her family had sent up a lot, saving it to make a salad for him. My uncle smiled and put some food into her bowl.

After dinner, my aunt and uncle sat on the porch drinking tea and murmuring about business. This year the pepper crop was bountiful, and my uncle planned to expand his plantation and plant more. When I finished washing the dishes and went out, he had already gone back to the fields. So, my aunt and I sat there under the shade of the butterfly pea flowers, the breeze caressing our ears, and I suddenly wanted to stay here forever. How peaceful this wooden house is, the pace of life so calm and pleasant...

Aunt Ut was busy all day with her large garden, growing vegetables and flowers, and doing housework, so I never saw her rest. I wanted to help, so I rolled up my sleeves and worked alongside her. I especially loved the early mornings when we cut flowers to sell at the market. The market wasn't big, and there weren't many buyers or sellers. The two of us would sit by the roadside, under the shade of a young banyan tree, inviting passersby to buy flowers. Most were acquaintances; they wouldn't haggle over the price, just ask about each other's children and spouses. I also loved the peaceful evenings strolling down the winding slope. We walked together, the moon shining like a bronze platter overhead, fireflies twinkling in swarms. Returning from our stroll, Aunt Ut would brew a pot of butterfly pea flower tea; the water was a fragrant blue like the morning sun, and after one sip, I wanted another.

Sometimes someone would visit the little house. They would buy vegetables and flowers in large quantities, so they had to order several days in advance; other times, it was a day laborer working for her uncle who came to get an advance to buy something. These people were all simple and unassuming, with dark, shiny skin and bright, sparkling eyes. She would always offer them a cup of fragrant tea, a baked pastry, and slip them some freshly picked fruits from her garden to give to her young nephew.

During my stay at her house, I lay swaying in the hammock, watching the sunlight filter through the leaves, listening to the birds chirping, and I found myself longing for such a simple life. Watching her busy with the large garden, carefully preparing meals for my uncle, and managing the household finances, I thought that surely no sadness could be mixed in with this peaceful routine. Her eyes were brighter than when she first got married; perhaps she was content with everything around her.

My aunt is very skillful and a good cook. I love the fragrant vanilla sponge cakes she bakes in the oven, and I also love her smooth avocado smoothie topped with tender white coconut shreds. The day I returned to school, she cooked a meal full of my favorite dishes. She even packed lots of snacks for me to take to town and share with my friends. Before I got into the car to be driven to the main road by my uncle, she held my hand and gave me all sorts of advice. I squeezed her hand tightly and promised to visit again during the next holiday.

Time passed relentlessly, through my student years and later the stressful and challenging days after graduation. The wooden house halfway up the hill became a peaceful haven for me to return to after the hustle and bustle of life. My aunt and uncle are older now, and the front yard is no longer covered with endless flowers. But when I visit, I find the house as peaceful as it was in my memories. My uncle is no longer busy with his pepper plantations, so he's home more often. My aunt still tends to the fruit trees in the garden, still bakes delicious cakes, and still gently strokes my hair whenever I visit.

I've always been certain that my aunt is very happy, not at all as distressed as my mother worries. Everyone has their own definition of life; there's no right or wrong, as long as we are content...

Short story: LE NHUNG

Source: https://baocantho.com.vn/ngoi-nha-tren-trien-doc-a187729.html