Those were the days when the north wind blew relentlessly on the banana leaves behind the house. I sat in my familiar little nook, letting the darkness engulf me to the bottom, listening to the cold rain between the gusts of wind, mourning at the foot of the hill. Perhaps every child in this world has their own little nook like me, reserved for times when they feel resentful, angry or sad. I looked through the crack, out there the sea and the sky blurred as if they had merged into one, a few glimmers of light in the mist only made my heart feel more empty. Leaning against the wall, my eyes heavy, perhaps because I had shed too many tears, I slowly fell asleep to the haunting sound of rain tapping on the dark tiles.
*
* *
My grandmother told me that my grandfather had a fishing boat that his great-grandfather had left him. The boat was small so he only fished in the sea near the shore, going out at sunset and arriving early the next morning. The boat was very old, the sun and wind had worn it down. When he was twelve, my grandfather wanted to go to town to continue his studies, but his great-grandfather's house only had enough for two meals a day, and the road was difficult, so he had to sadly drop out of school and go to sea like many other children in the fishing village when he grew up. He went to sea but his heart had long since ceased to belong to the sea. That year's storm had swept the boat to pieces in the fierce waves. The next morning, only my grandmother walked along the sandy shore, picking up the pieces and crying.
No longer going to sea, he followed the villagers to work far away, each time for months at a time. Every time he returned, he became more and more grumpy and irritable. When my uncle grew up, his grandfather forbade him from going to sea. But the sea captivated him with its endless mystery of the white waves far out at sea. That year, the storm season came early, and my grandfather was still absent. At sixteen, he went to sea for the first time without his grandfather's knowledge. But it was also the last time. He did not return.
He also fell into alcoholism from that time. When he was drunk, his face darkened, his skin the color of the sun burned with hardship, silent, the bottom of his eyes were filled with anger, sometimes as deep as the sea in the windy season. One time, he looked straight at her face, shouted: "You don't love Hai, so you let him go to sea. Because he is your son, you don't love him!" Then he knelt down in front of the house, crying loudly, hoarsely in the sound of the sea wind chasing each other. My grandmother was silent, barefooted, ran up the hill and sat down, face down, sobbing. For decades, the wound in his heart still ached and ached.
Then there were windless afternoons, she lay still on the hammock, watching the yellow sunlight through the window, wondering if my grandfather had intentionally anchored the boat there alone, letting the waves rise and beat it to pieces. The boat had done nothing wrong, fate had prevented my grandfather from being with the girl he had loved in his youth. The girl in the bustling town had given birth to a son, whom I later called uncle. She was not used to the sea breeze and scorching sun, and together with him she had dreamed of a faraway journey without being surrounded by the sea and sky. But my grandfather's illness prevented him from going, and his heart was broken by the thousands of waves. The waves that never slept, day and night, lifted the shadow of the boat, parting the water.
There were many nights when his drunkenness became a storm through the house, and she stayed awake, hiding in the darkness. Mom turned to lie with her back to me, and I reached over to touch her wet pillow. Watching her silently pull the thin blanket, covering her thin shoulders that had traveled the long, windy road day and night, I silently blamed my father for not coming back. In the spring of the year I was ten, didn't my father kiss me on both cheeks, and promise to be away from me only this spring, when the purple flowers of compassion bloomed all over the sand dunes behind the house, he would come back. I kept waiting, waiting, the purple flowers of compassion bloomed painfully for several seasons and then withered. I secretly heard her sigh to my mother, that he would definitely not let the story of my father escaping the boat owner to shore, having a child, and then staying forever with another woman slip out. My father left everything behind and was happy with his new home in a faraway land. But the story of my father's departure also spread throughout the coastal village, like a school of fish that could not escape the net. I did not believe it, ran to the back of the house and sat huddled in a dark corner.
They said that my father had to run away because he had an alcoholic father-in-law, my grandfather, who tormented the whole family every day. The kids in the neighborhood were convinced that I was bad and that was why my father abandoned me. I rushed at them and their mother made a fuss at my house. They said my mother was a teacher, teaching life but not teaching children, my father was in such a mess and couldn't keep his husband. Seeing my mother just sitting quietly mending the net, they took advantage of the situation and cursed my grandmother, saying that her life was just like her son's, how could her husband not love her, she was here but her heart belonged to another country. She was washing rice in the water jar, as if she had endured enough, she went to the corner of the house, took a broom, ran to the porch, chased the people away, and closed the gate. The curses still echoed at the end of the road.
That night, the rain fell in the distance, lingering as if trying to soothe the scratches on my arms and legs. Sitting in the small alcove, the cold wind occasionally stung my wounds, but perhaps nothing hurt more than the promise my father made years ago that I still waited for.
*
* *
During that stormy season, my grandfather fell ill. The alcohol had made him emaciated, his face pale with darkness always filling his sunken eyes. My mother and grandmother took him to many places for treatment but only received head shakes. Morning and evening, he lay by the window facing the sea, his sleep fitfully following the white-capped waves that lapped relentlessly against the shore. The smell of medicine replaced the constant strong smell of alcohol. His gruff voice had long since died from his lips, now only whispers as light as smoke remained.
During the days when my grandfather was sick, Uncle Thuan often came to help my mother and grandmother. There were so many things that needed a man's hand when the storm season came. Uncle Thuan was my father's seafaring friend, he spent almost the whole year at sea when there was no one left to return to. His small house was at the end of a slope, surrounded by bare cactus bushes with bright yellow flowers. During the stormy season, when he returned home and saw only his own shadow in the midst of the deserted surroundings, he went to find a dove cage to hang in front of the porch. The deep cooing sound poured through the window frame, making the space less lonely. He came to my house to ask for some cassava cuttings to plant beside the hibiscus hedge, and to clear the garden grass to prepare for planting vegetables.
One afternoon, I lay in a hammock and listened to her tell a story. I just realized that both my father and Uncle Thuan loved my mother. But my uncle was gentle and forgiving, and did not want to break the relationship, so he chose to quietly anchor his life in the ocean. In a flash, more than ten years had passed and he was still alone. As she spoke, she looked sadly out the front door. At that moment, Uncle Thuan was busy cutting some branches, when the radio reported that the storm would come in just a few days.
Listening to her story, a vague anxiety suddenly arose in me. A few days later, I tried to hide from her and my mother the turmoil in my heart. One time, I blurted out: "Don't rush to marry another man, Mom!", my hand grabbed the hem of my mother's shirt and shook it. My grandmother heard it, paused for a moment, then looked at me seriously: "Who taught you to say that?". My mother was also slightly surprised, then turned her face towards the sea, hiding her sad eyes like the misty afternoon shadow.
*
* *
My grandfather passed away on the night of the storm. In the morning, there was not a single wind in the sky, all around was so quiet it was terrifying. I remember his peaceful face, the last look he gave her. It was probably the warmest look I had ever seen, the darkness had disappeared from his deep eyes. He had let go of all the obsessions and exhaustion of the past decades, the wound in his heart no longer ached. Time seemed to be held by someone's hand, lingering forever at the moment when hearts wanted to sob out loud. She sat beside him for a long, long time, amidst the echoes of the vast ocean.
I hid in my little hole, sobbing. Whether drunk or sober, he never scolded me. When my grandmother and mother beat me, I often threw myself into his arms to be protected. Was I the most unfortunate child in the world to have to leave both my father and grandfather? The clumsy lullaby he used to sing to me when he was not tipsy from alcohol had now faded into the sound of the vast waves. My heart was now as empty as an abandoned train car, blowing in the wind. I fell asleep with tears still salty on my lips.
Waking up and looking out the crack, darkness had fallen. The wind began to blow through the garden. In the midst of the pouring rain, I saw my mother's figure collapse in pain, Uncle Thuan's figure from afar approached, trembling, lifting my mother up, then hugging her tightly. My heart was pounding, a thought flashed through my mind. How unfortunate I was to have to leave both my father and my grandfather. Now I couldn't let anyone else take my mother away from me. I stood up and ran around to the garden. The north wind blew into the eucalyptus trees, rustling the fallen leaves on the gutter of the back porch. In the twilight, I bit hard on Uncle Thuan's little finger. All my resentment seemed to be concentrated in it. I screamed: "You can't do that to my mother!" Uncle Thuan suddenly let go of his hand, his little finger curled up and bled. My mother fell silent and covered her face, crying. Uncle Thuan was confused and stepped back, hesitantly: "Uncle, I'm sorry...".
*
* *
It has been several springs since Uncle Thuan returned to the coastal village. I often stand under the old tamarind tree, looking over at his small house. The cage from years ago lies alone, covered with dust on the porch, the cage door wide open. Perhaps he has released the dove to fly back to the vast poplar forest. The mottled wall has a few slanting sunspots, the green window has lost its latch due to the wind. The grass in the backyard has grown back, covering the beds of soil that had not yet had time to be sown for that spring.
Some people said that he had given up his job at sea, and that his wife and children were living happily in another country. Some people sadly said that he had gone far away, in the middle of the stormy sea. But I only believed in my heart. I grew up and waited for him to come back. I owe Uncle Thuan an apology.
One day in early summer when I was sixteen, the sunlight was very clear after a long rain, I heard that Uncle Thuan had packed up and returned to his old house. Looking out at the eucalyptus leaves glistening in the sunlight, I felt my heart filled with joy. But at that time I was also confused, wondering where to start when I met him again. Thinking about it until the afternoon, I decided to bring some newly picked coconuts to give to him. It was time to say the apology that I had cherished and tormented for the past few years.
Uncle Thuan was in the garden, carefully sowing seeds on the straw-covered ground. He seemed not to notice me standing behind him scratching my head beside the cactus bush. His right hand cupped the seeds in each small plot of soil, but why did I only see four fingers? I tried to look closely, counting over and over again, where was his little finger? My heart ached, it was the finger I had angrily bitten that night.
*
* *
“That finger, I have sent it to the ocean!” Uncle Thuan looked at me, smiling gently. The smile was as warm as the sun rising from the sea.
“I'm sorry... I'm sorry, uncle!” I stuttered, biting my lip.
The first winds of the season swayed across the garden. The windows in my soul seemed to have just been opened, and Uncle Thuan came in and lit a fire. The fire guided the way for so much trust, soothed and settled in my heart, lifted the mist on every path to the land of passionate love.
Uncle Thuan has returned, I wait to see the new drops of sunshine in my mother's eyes. I remember the last look he gave her, catching the dream of the blue sea. In the heart of the sea, Uncle Thuan also left a part of his dream.
High in the sky, a pair of turtledoves have just spread their wings and flown back.../.
Sa Lam
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