Small lamp by the window

We had mentally prepared ourselves for a few months. I smiled and encouraged: The seaside town is beautiful, and it’s not too far away. Then you and the baby will have the opportunity to go swimming in the sea more often. Saying that, but inside, I still felt restless and anxious, even though I couldn’t name or grasp what it was.

At 2am on Monday morning, my husband started packing. Although he tried to be gentle so as not to wake me and my baby, I couldn’t sleep all night, so when I heard his footsteps, I woke up too. Pleiku was in the rainy season, the weather was starting to get cold…

He went down to the coastal city, starting a new rhythm of life. Quy Nhon - a place with blue sea and golden sunshine, a place people often call "the city of poetry". We had been to Quy Nhon a few times, on family trips, walking along Eo Gio and feeling light-hearted. But now thinking about that place, I feel a distance that is not only geographical. Because the furthest distance, sometimes is not from the mountain to the sea, but from habit to nostalgia. I still go to the market and cook regularly as before, still tell my children to study carefully, still wait for video calls every night. Some days he is busy working overtime until late at noon and still hasn't had time to eat anything, other days he is busy entertaining guests. I just send a short message - Remember to take care of your health, come back to me and the children on the weekend.

That's what I told him, but I don't know if it's for him or if I'm trying to comfort myself.

Every morning, after taking my child to school, I stop by the corner coffee shop where the old apple tree casts its shade across the street, where my husband and I used to sit and drink water, watching the hustle and bustle of people every morning. Now I sit alone, looking into the distance, imagining the windy Quy Nhon and him. Hundreds of questions are strung across my brain… Life without my husband passes by with small but persistent gaps. Habits that seem normal suddenly become unbearable memories. The whole house seems to be larger and colder every night. I know my husband and I are not alone. Many families share the same situation of “wife in one place, husband in another” as mine. My sister also had to change her young daughter’s school, away from her husband and eldest son to work in the coastal city…

People often call it a mission, an adjustment of the machine, a change. I understand. And I support it. And then I encourage myself that everything will be fine, I will gradually adapt. But I also know that it will take a long time for me to get used to the loneliness, especially in the season of windy afternoons.

Pleiku has been raining more these days. The camellia tree in front of the gate has bloomed a batch of purple and white flowers and then started to shed its leaves. I sat making tea, remembering the sound of him waking up my child to go to school every morning, and remembering the way he drove me down Phu Dong slope every weekend. Now, I walk alone and the slope seems to have lengthened.

I don’t count the days you left, I only count each time you said, “I’ll finish the meeting early tomorrow, I’ll probably come back soon.” My child and I are still here - in the small house at the end of the alley, where the afternoon breeze seems to carry the scent of the sea, mixed with the taste of nostalgia. I’m still here, like a small lamp by the window, silently waiting for the morning.

Source: https://baogialai.com.vn/ngon-den-nho-ben-khung-cua-post560947.html