Let's go watch a cultural performance together.

When I was little, I eagerly awaited the evening cultural performances. After dinner, hearing the sound of the engine testing from across the river and seeing the headlights illuminating a corner of the sky, my heart would race, and I'd excitedly beg my mother to take me to the village to watch the performance. In my afternoon, after washing the dishes, my mother went into her room to change her shirt, comb her long hair, and take a flashlight to light the way home later. I hurriedly slipped on my plastic sandals and rushed out to the gate. Many of the neighbors had already left, and the air on the dirt road was filled with laughter and chatter. My classmates, walking in a line, waved and called out to me. My mother, following behind, joined the adults. Everyone chatted, and wherever they went, their laughter echoed far and wide.

Residents of Trung Khanh Vinh commune watch a mobile cultural performance organized by the Provincial Cultural Center. Photo: Nhan Tam.

The country road, overgrown with weeds, was a familiar sight to me every day as I cycled to school. But tonight, under the cool breeze and moonlight, walking alongside my mother, friends, and aunts and uncles, it felt strangely new and joyful. Crossing the concrete bridge and climbing a steep slope, we reached the open area. There, a crowd had already gathered: young people chatting, couples strolling with their children, and elderly villagers setting out their wares on plastic tables, their flickering oil lamps illuminating bottles of soda, lollipops, and gummy candies. On the stage, colorful lights shone brightly, and a green backdrop was adorned with elegant lettering. The presenter, dressed in a white ao dai, peeked from behind the curtain, preparing her paperwork. My friends and I played tag, and when we got tired of that, we went behind the stage to watch the actors get dressed. Only when the music started blaring and the show began did we all rush to find our seats.

On stage, several girls in purple dresses, their long, flowing hair swaying, danced a folk song with fans. They were all from the same village, easily recognizable by their makeup, but I was surprised to find them so beautiful. Normally, their hands and feet were covered in mud, but now, under the colorful lights, before hundreds of eyes, they seemed to suddenly shine like distant stars, their nimble hands moving gracefully to the music like a professional dance troupe. As the program progressed, it became even more captivating, with duets, group singing, solo dances, and theatrical performances. I watched intently. It was very late at night, and some children clung to their mothers, wanting to go home, while the younger ones rested their heads on their fathers' shoulders, drifting off to sleep.

The performance ended, the host smiled and said goodbye, and the audience applauded and cheered. Walking back home, everyone chattered about the evening's show, talking about how gracefully Auntie Năm from my village danced, and how beautifully Uncle Bảy, the boatman, sang. The late night was as lively as an early morning market. My mother and I blended into the crowd, following the light of the lamps as we walked. The further we went from the village, the fewer people there were, disappearing behind side streets and bushes. The noise gradually subsided, and when we reached the lane to our house, only my mother and I remained.

At night, I climbed into bed beside my mother, outside the window, the peaceful moonlight streamed across the square courtyard. The vague sounds of the vast countryside enveloped my sleep, and I drifted off to sleep amidst the lingering echoes of the evening's cultural performance. The sound of water splashing against the smooth stone in the pond echoed repeatedly in my dreams...

LE THI HONG NHUNG

Source: https://baokhanhhoa.vn/van-hoa/202601/ru-nhau-di-coi-van-nghe-2813408/