Casual Conversation: Memories... by the Fence

Each person has their own reason: making a living, changing their fortune, or simply seeing the world. There are also cases where someone leaves because their girlfriend "ordered" them to: "You have two choices, either you go and start a new life with me, or you become my ex-girlfriend."

A crescent moon rises with difficulty amidst a forest of skyscrapers, evoking a sense of homesickness. A person sings aimlessly, prompting the person beside them to join in, "Is there anyone sitting and counting the seasons of longing?"… The lyrics of " The Sadness of the Lodging House " (*) - a melancholic song from over sixty years ago - are spontaneously giving rise to a new version: "Now I'm in the lodging house, and the small neighborhood has one less person."

Night falls. Not a single breeze blows through the room. Amidst the whirring of the fan, someone mentions how the sun and wind in the countryside at this time of year allow the hedge to bloom freely. "What a cruel remark, it makes me miss… the hedge so much!" A light laugh, "Are you the only one who misses it? Me too, I even remember the crickets chirping behind the hedge." Another voice chimes in, "That's nothing, I remember the people in our neighborhood talking about the rain and sunshine of the harvest over that hedge that only came up to our chests." The room is filled with a contagious sense of nostalgia. A brief moment of lightness arises when someone jokes, "Are we planning a collective PhD contest about… hedges?"

It's strange to think about it. The word "fence" suggests separation. But the word "shore" erases those boundaries. Fence in the countryside doesn't separate, it connects. From afar, you see houses connected by colorful fences of flowers and gentle foliage. Fence of bright red hibiscus, vibrant red ixora, deep red roses, lush green tea plants, and rows of tiny yellow-brown berries. Sometimes the fence extends into the backyard, and when it runs out of steam, a few clumps of cassava take its place. Within the fence, there's the fresh breath of the countryside, with bees and butterflies fluttering about all day long, beckoning and showing off. And if childhood has a smell, it's surely the smell of the fence – the smell of sun and rain, of flowers and leaves that daily permeate the children's hair. It's where innocent, naive games take place. Little "grooms" pick hibiscus flowers to make lipstick, and use cassava stalks to make necklaces for their "brides," who are just five or six years old. Under the shade of the fence, the children play marbles and hopscotch. One of the kids, playing nearby, suddenly looked around, their nostrils flaring as they detected the scent of ripe guavas. The whole group climbed over the fence to steal some. A few scrapes and bleeding wounds were nothing; scraping up young coconut flesh and applying it would soothe them immediately.

Unlike the city with its high walls and gates, the country fences are low, low enough for people to see each other, chat, exchange pleasantries, and inquire about their fields, gardens, and fruit trees. Adults can easily jump over the fence to chase after a fox and retrieve a duckling. A neighbor carrying a basket of sour starfruit walks by and says across the fence, "Auntie Tư, come and get some starfruit to make soup." Sometimes, someone on this side of the fence glances towards the river and says casually, "It's probably going to rain today, Uncle Tư, isn't it?" On the other side, they reply, "Yes, rain will moisten the soil; why keep it sunny all the time?"

Whether it's the weather, planting, harvesting, rice prices, cow births, family celebrations, or upcoming weddings, the fence listens and remembers everything. Those returning from afar walk along the country roads, their hearts pounding as they pass by these rustic fences, their feet stumbling on familiar paths. This stumbling isn't due to tangled vines, but because the fence is in "memory mode," bringing back childhood memories. The elderly are happy that the fence remains young, still lush and green, clinging firmly to the village soil, patiently interwoven, connecting, and enduring through time.

( *) The Sadness of the Lodging House - a song composed by Mạnh Phát and Hoài Linh

Source: https://thanhnien.vn/nhan-dam-ky-uc-bo-rao-185251018182605622.htm