Where the storm stops behind the door.

Illustration: DANG HONG QUAN

Setting my suitcase down in the yard, where the cement pavement had crumbled into potholes, I gazed at the house, battered and scarred by the storm. Old and new cracks intertwined on the walls, resembling the patterns on my parents' hands—gray and calloused. A mix of familiar and strange emotions flooded my mind, blurring my vision.

I glanced around; my father's poinsettia plant was still peacefully standing by the steps.

Since my father passed away, my house has been filled with empty spaces. The porch where he used to secretly sit and smoke is now bare. The television he used to watch the news on, placed by the window, is silent. The stone benches in the yard, where my father and I used to sit and enjoy a cup of Vietnamese filter coffee whenever we had free time, are now covered in fine dust. Everywhere I look, I feel a strange, overwhelming sadness.

The day before the storm

Before the storms, my house was a symbol in the neighborhood because of its distinctive architecture from the 1990s, when tiling walls with many small stones became a popular trend. My father hung several orchid plants on the two stone-tiled walls; each time they bloomed, it was as if they were growing on dry pebbles.

Dad also placed a set of stone tables and chairs on the porch. In the evenings, he liked to turn on the fluorescent lights in the yard, sip a hot cup of coffee, and talk about all sorts of things. His hearty smile seemed to brighten up an entire corner of the house.

I vividly remember those scorching hot days when my two or three siblings, wearing conical hats and carrying plastic buckets, would go to the pond in the fields to scoop up mud to plant lotus flowers, getting covered in dirt. Or whenever we went for a walk and saw beautiful flowers, we would stop the car, buy some, and "beg" for a few branches to plant.

Gathering little by little, before you know it, the small corner of the yard had become a sea of ​​colorful flowers. Dad even bought some more string lights to hang on the front fence, where there was a cluster of white and pink bougainvillea.

Dad said that every time I sit here drinking coffee, it feels like I'm in a cool, garden cafe. Hearing that, I smiled broadly.

It could be said that every branch and blade of grass in the front yard grew from the careful saving and accumulation of the two or three children over more than a decade. And yet, the storm came...

The storm is coming.

The storm swept in. The wind uprooted the mango trees near the well. Through the tiny crack in the door, Mother said that Uncle Thanh's corrugated iron roof had also been blown into the fields by the whirlwind, covering the waterlogged rice paddies. The garden behind the house couldn't withstand the storm either. Sections of the banana trees withered and broke in half. The three-tiered bougainvillea trellis was torn to shreds. No one knew what the future held, when just moments ago they had been so healthy and thriving.

A bittersweet feeling welled up inside me. So I quickly rolled up my sleeves. I cleaned up the rubble. I built a fence, replanted the trees. I used rope to tie and secure the banana tree trunks. I pulled the temporary trellis up the sapodilla bush behind the house. Sitting there, wiping the sweat from my forehead, I suddenly remembered the storms of my childhood, when my father's hands shielded us from the elements.

In that moment, I suddenly remembered the usage of words in English. Specifically, the words "home" and "house." For me, this house is not just a place to live, but a home, a place where countless memories of my father's life are anchored.

I will take over from my father in tending these small flowerbeds, so that from the rocky soil, they will sprout beautiful, vibrant colors. And also to provide a pillar of support, to guide my mother peacefully through life's storms.

Everyone wants to have a home, a place where the storm stops behind the door...

Source: https://tuoitre.vn/noi-bao-dung-sau-canh-cua-20240915094127196.htm