The sunrises of the past

Illustration by MINH SON

The dog, Vàng, sat down beside him, wagging its tail frantically.

Mrs. Ngữ calmly took a plastic shovel and piled soil up her legs. She stopped when the soil reached her knees, put the shovel aside, and handed the plastic cup to Vàng, telling her dog to fetch some water.

The dog understood its owner's intention, obediently grabbed the water, ran off towards the waves, plunged its face in, and then ran back. The woman happily caught it and poured water onto the sand. The dog shook itself a few times, splashing water everywhere. The woman scolded, "You're getting me all wet!"

The dog, Vàng, nuzzled its head against the old woman, wagging its ears and sticking out its tongue with black spots to lick all over her face and hands.

Several joggers passed by, a young couple playing in the waves as they walked. Another group, laughing and chatting, arrived. Each person carried buckets, shovels with long iron handles, and even face masks and hats. They busily dug small holes, just big enough to lie in, then slowly filled them in, leaving only their heads exposed. Long rows of holes and mounds followed one another.

Hearing that burying oneself in the sand could cure all diseases, the whole village—no, the whole district, or maybe more—was drawn to it. Mrs. Ngữ didn't know where they came from. Long lines of cars and motorbikes filled the parking lots. The beach in her hometown stretched endlessly, wide and spacious. People arrived very early, diligently digging small holes to bury themselves. They lay there until the sun shone brightly before leisurely heading home. And at that moment, her son's boat had just docked, so even though the fish were still in the nets, they crowded around to buy them. The fresh fish were still wriggling, slippery, and glistening with green and yellow scales—a delightful sight.

She went to the beach early, a deeply ingrained habit of the fishermen, from the time the sun was still a rosy hue until it parted the clouds, casting its first brilliant rays. Standing before the sea, listening to the roaring waves, feeling the sunlight dance on her skin, and hearing the sand crunch under her feet, the feeling was incredibly pleasant and refreshing. Thanks to that sunshine, the surging waves, and the smooth, sandy shore, the people of the coastal region have been strong, healthy, and robust for generations. Nothing compares to the feeling of being completely at one with nature, breathing in the salty air with its hint of seaweed, and feeling her lungs fill with vitality.

The feeling of coming home to someone waiting for you is wonderful. She overheard these words while her son was drinking with his friends. That's right, after more than a night adrift at sea, all they long for is to reach shore. They thought it was just a struggle for survival, but life is increasingly unpredictable. Even those who bravely venture across the seas eventually have to set aside their adventurous spirit and focus on their families. No one knows for sure what tomorrow will bring, but they know that each day must be lived to the fullest.

Looking up at the incense burners without portraits, tears welled up in her eyes. Thinking of the words "waiting," she felt sorrow for her father, longing for her mother, and remembering the weary waiting of nearly 70 years ago. She only heard it from her mother; her father was a revolutionary fighting against the French, and those were extremely difficult times—and indeed, revolution is difficult in any era.

Not long after their marriage, my father was hunted down. A final separation awaited them, a moment of death awaiting them; my mother was pregnant with my sister at the time. My father fled to Saigon to continue his activities, his fate unknown. My mother silently gave birth, silently lived, and waited. One windy winter night, the door creaked open, a soft voice whispered through the gap. My mother gasped in shock, clutching her chest, cautiously opening the latch. A man and the wind rushed into the small room. Unable to express the longing, unable to convey the endless yearning, only tears and kisses remained. Leaving behind a bundle of cloth as a gift for his wife and infant, my father leaped into the mountains to continue his mission.

War is a monster, a terrifying machine that devours countless people. Young men and women have sacrificed their youth on the brutal battlefields. After a windy winter night, my mother gained a grandmother. The hardships of making a living are nothing compared to those on the front lines; they live as if they must live. They live to wait. Only the path of survival offers hope for a reunion. Every time she feels sad, her grandmother thinks of my mother. My mother's life, how many happy days were there, yet she still managed to live. Happiness or sadness is determined by fate, but whether one survives or not is up to each individual, my mother said.

Her youth was also full of enthusiasm. Seeing her friends joining the resistance in the guerrilla zone, she wanted to follow, but her mother sadly told her to wait for her father to return. She waited and waited, until she was 20 years old and learned that her father would never come back. She joined her friends in the militia, serving at a mountain outpost quite far from home, but she was filled with excitement. The heavy loads of rice and other goods didn't weigh down her young shoulders, because so many people were waiting ahead. There was An, Thao, Kẹo… her whole village of over a dozen friends, and her boyfriend.

Two years after her lover left, the papers came back to replace him. The whole village mourned for the young men…

***

Her daughter-in-law was busy with her wholesale business, and the children were each glued to their phones, not bothering to remember that they had a grandmother. Sometimes, feeling lonely, she would hug her dog, Vàng, and whisper to him. The dog was surprisingly clever, always clinging to her legs. On days when she was too tired to go to the beach, Vàng would pull her away, then curl up at the foot of the bed, waiting for her to get up. Sometimes she wanted to get sick, but couldn't because of him.

In her free time, the television became her second closest friend, after her dog, Vàng. She accidentally watched a discussion among young people, and her heart ached. She was unfamiliar with the words, bewildered by many of the speeches. What should a child do living in a time of media crisis and the indiscriminate influx of modern civilization? So many questions were raised, so many loud pronouncements and empty rhetoric, saying that they couldn't just stand by and watch the younger generation fall into a dark abyss, branded with foreign labels. Their brightly colored hair, their macabre tattoos, their ridiculously tattered pants… She sighed helplessly. The whole society was grappling with the problem of integration, but there was no solution yet; what could an old woman like her, nearing the end of her life, do?

The pandemic was harsh, but it also led to increased family interaction, eating together, chatting happily—they call it "slow living." However, those online classes also resulted in everyone, from the oldest to the youngest, being equipped with a phone. This so-called online culture is said to be very effective, but only effective for busy people with lots of work. But for the kids in my neighborhood, each one wears thick glasses, their faces always squinting. They look bewildered and take a long time to understand anything you say, so passive. My son says they're like the dairy cows on the farm!

Now, urban life has infiltrated every corner of the countryside, stifling the simple games of childhood. In this neighborhood, no one has practiced this craft for a long time. Looking at the discarded coconut fiber processing machine lying abandoned behind the shed, she felt a pang of sadness, remembering a time of hardship and poverty. How wonderful it would be if this craft still existed. Children wouldn't be glued to tiny mobile phones, screaming hysterically over bloody, violent games. Besides social media, what else do children play? Their parents admit to each other, helplessly watching their children plunge into these risky new trends.

Her village sits on a wide strip of land. Thanks to the alluvial deposits from the river and the influence of saltwater during high tide, the area is covered entirely with coconut trees. Coconut trees surround the village, protecting it from storms, providing shade, and sustaining many people.

She fondly remembers the time when the whole village and neighborhood made coconut fiber, a light and easy job suitable for the elderly and even children during their summer vacation. As long as they diligently helped shred the fibers, the cost of pens and notebooks was no longer a major burden at the start of each school year.

Buried in deep mud, heavy loads of coconut shells were carried out for up to six months before being dried, shredded, and spun into rope. The awning was widened, and stories followed one another. The playful banter and teasing filled the air, and hands as rough as coconut shells always sparkled with smiles.

"People have been to Mars, Mom, and now you're still asking for a spinning wheel? How backward!" my daughter-in-law said. She didn't know what was so great about Mars, whether there were windy beaches with crab burrows and thorny bushes, peaceful mornings listening to the gentle waves carrying boats from far out to sea back to shore, bringing with them children of the sea laden with fish and shrimp, or stormy afternoons with swirling winds whipping through coconut trees and sand swirling in a breathtakingly tense atmosphere.

Is Mars truly peaceful? There have been epidemics claiming tens of thousands of innocent lives, bloody conflicts leading to heartbreaking separations, and centuries-old grievances that will forever be etched in history books, leaving behind countless cases of wrongful convictions.

No matter where she was or what the circumstances, she still loved this blue planet so much. Every morning, she and her dog, Vàng, would go to the edge of the waves, bury their feet in the sand, feeling the earth's embrace, watching the sunrise part the mist with a sigh, waiting for the boats to bob up and down, bringing back fish and shrimp. The children frolicked on the sandy shore, traditional games passed down and preserved for generations to come. There were mock battles, hide-and-seek, and games of hide-and-seek on the long, winding stretch of sand. Oh, life only needed to be this peaceful.

HO LOAN

Source: https://baobariavungtau.com.vn/van-hoa-nghe-thuat/202504/nhung-binh-minh-qua-1039474/