Spring Dreams

Every spring, a stirring of emotions arises within. Then, the daytime stirrings fade into dreams. Spring dreams are always beautiful, filling memories and stretching across warm periods of life, from the cradle to the journey across vast mountains and rivers.

MOTHER'S DREAM

The winding roads, the crowing of roosters at dawn, or the rhythmic pounding of pestles in the rice-making mill, once intertwined with the lullabies of mothers, are perhaps the baggage of many who leave their villages to travel to the four corners of the earth. The imprint of their homeland in Central Vietnam, where a road winds through a narrow strip of land, is unforgettable. It is very narrow, with the distance from the foot of the mountains to the edge of the sea being less than fifty or sixty kilometers in some places.

Where fields sometimes nestle against hills, there are valleys teeming with wildflowers—flowers that may never bear fruit. Or perhaps thorny bushes along the winding paths. They seem to meander endlessly until one's feet ache. Stopping, one nestles among the leaves still wet with dew and inhales, a scent wafts into the air, indistinguishable from the smell of leaves, flowers, mud, rice, or perhaps the sap of some tree that just oozed from a branch cut down the previous afternoon. I still call it the scent of the hills.

Hands embracing the golden rice, like a mother's hands rocking her baby to sleep.

PHOTO: TTB

The bougainvillea, once growing on the hill, one day bloomed in the middle of the street.

PHOTO: TTB

A very distinctive scent, even now, when I close my eyes, I can still almost hear it. It blended with a very strange smell, until at the end of a branch of the path, where it intersected with a small river, and then seemed to vanish into each other in the gusts of wind that swept through the wild bushes growing along the bank. I think that at this moment, the scent of the hills must have mingled with the smell of the river, with its mud, decaying leaves, and creatures living at the bottom stirring up their hidden secrets accumulated over countless seasons and years.

During the monsoon season, the riverbanks are often overgrown with bushes, the very place where the cuckoo once called out to its mate at night. Sometimes, the wind pushes our small footsteps in one direction. The path along the river is narrow and winding. It follows the river's flow, endlessly passing through countless hamlets and villages, only to stop somewhere, followed by the footsteps of mothers and sisters carrying baskets on their heads. The end of those footsteps is the small house branching off from the riverbank or the fields. It's also the end of the daily journey for these hardworking and compassionate women, like the two ends of a straight line drawn with clumsy strokes in school days, separated by two horizontal bars. That's all, but now, thinking back, it always stretched endlessly along the feet of mothers walking to the market in the morning and evening, with the yearning to find a little joy and happiness on the faces of their innocent children.

The journey of children growing up in this country is similar. Joyful with the arrival of spring and new clothes. Excited to put aside books and pens in summer. Joyful to meet friends when autumn marks the beginning of a new school year. And warm with a mother's love in a pot of braised fish and hot rice when the cold winter winds blow. And so, year after year, children grow up. Generations have passed through the warm and cold seasons in their mothers' arms, in the scent of sweat from their mothers' hard work at the market, who would rush to hold and breastfeed their children before even putting down their carrying poles. And then, time flies by, the children grow up, and those memories only grow thicker, following their footsteps from one end of the world to the other.

I've always loved lullabies. A form of free-form performance, yet sometimes inspired, sung beside the cradle. This rare form of lullaby performance, using folk songs, proverbs, and folk poetry, can be called "free solo performance," rarely found outside of our country. Sometimes it soars, sometimes it lingers, sometimes it's spontaneously endless, without end, in the breath of these hardworking women. It continues to resonate as the mother gently adjusts the blanket or cover according to the weather, summer or winter. And so, throughout their breastfeeding journey, children grow up in the cradle, their sleep never interrupted, as their mother's lullaby never ceases, never breaking!

Therefore, I would like to honor those quiet, gentle voices that once breathed refreshing air onto my eyelids and those of so many others, leaving me and my family with a lifetime of longing for those soothing lullabies beside our cradles!

DREAM OF THE RIVER

Allow me to borrow the words from Trinh Cong Son's famous song "A Realm to Return To" to ponder the finiteness of human life. Those footsteps, those weary feet that have traveled countless miles—sometimes, when I hear them, I suddenly wonder: does the river feel ashamed of itself after a hundred years?

My hometown has two small rivers near my house. Every day on my way to school, I pass a ferry landing that people have long called Ben Sanh (Sanh Ferry Landing). Stepping across the bridge over the river, I often wonder if it's named that way because there's a Sanh tree there. Sometimes, I absentmindedly allow myself to pronounce it as Ben Sinh (Sinh Ferry Landing). Is this the place where countless mothers carried their babies for nine months and ten days, their bellies bulging as they reached the maternity ward to give birth and utter their first cries?

Another river, there's a place called Ben Ngu. According to elders, this was once a resting place for a Nguyen Dynasty king traveling from the capital to inspect the Minh Linh region, hence the name. A wharf with a name of power, which I often picture in my imagination: perhaps a meal served in the hands of someone sitting on a high throne, or perhaps sitting down beside a cool mulberry grove, listening to the strong river breeze?

The Thach Han River in my hometown of Quang Tri continues to tirelessly lap against both banks.

PHOTO: TTB

From there I journeyed, contemplating countless ups and downs and reunions. From there I journeyed, to witness fleeting joys and the daily sighs of hardship. And from there I journeyed, alongside the flowing skirts and dresses amidst the carefree Nam Binh region of Hue , where once, the golden sunlight captivated the footsteps of countless people.

I don't know!

But one thing I know is that through the years of erosion caused by storms and torrential rains, the river continues to flow endlessly, embracing countless golden fields and lulling itself to sleep between its banks, each yearning for its own solitude. And so, the migratory footsteps of countless generations continue until the last breath of those who have left their homeland, forever longing for the familiar call of the river from days gone by.

The river remains, and the footsteps depart. A conclusion evenly divides these two conflicting sides. It's as if they can always part without ever truly separating. For the river still yearns for its flowing waters within someone's heart. And the distant footsteps still long to return to the shore, where the sounds of childhood splashing in the water echo through the long night.

I've always thought that those childhood dance steps and the sound of the river waves will live on forever!

Source: https://thanhnien.vn/nhung-giac-mo-xuan-185260131212406937.htm