Tin is over 30 years old, a true city dweller, raised in the countryside but has been away from the fields and rivers for more than 10 years. After a period of struggling with the hustle and bustle of life and the endless pressure of work, he decided to quit his job.
Not because of failure, but because it was time to no longer endure the feeling of being a machine operating out of duty, without any emotions. Tin got on the bus, carrying a small backpack, a few belongings, and a head heavy with unanswered questions.
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Illustration: TRAN THANG. |
Short story The Fish Season Tin is over 30 years old, a true city dweller, raised in the countryside but has been away from the rice fields and river banks for more than 10 years. After a period of struggling with the hustle and bustle of life and the endless pressure of work, he decided to quit his job. Not because of failure, but because it was time to no longer be able to endure the feeling of being a machine operating out of duty, without any emotions. Tin got on the bus, carrying a small backpack, a few belongings, and a head heavy with unanswered questions.
His hometown is in a border area, where the flood season is the season when the sky and earth change. Returning after 10 years, as soon as he got out of the car, he was surrounded by a familiar and heartbreaking sound: the sound of water gurgling through the fields, the sound of frogs chirping from the edge of the ditch, and the sound of the wind playing in the old bamboo groves. The pungent smell of mud, the smell of wild grass that had just been flooded, all rushed in like a burst of memories. The flood season, the season when the fish returned, he had looked forward to it like a part of his childhood. At that time, every afternoon wading in the fields to set traps and pull nets, were the most memorable days. The small boat of Uncle Ba, his old neighbor, was being pushed away from the shore. C
When he saw him, his eyes lit up and he laughed loudly: “Is that Tin? Oh my god, I’ve only just seen you today!” Tin felt his throat tighten. He nodded, smiled lightly, but inside was an undercurrent of emotion. That night, sitting on the familiar bamboo bed behind the house, he heard the chirping of insects, watched the moon peeking out from behind a thin layer of clouds. His heart suddenly became quiet as he recalled his childhood days. During the flood season, fish flooded the fields, the children were excited as if they were celebrating a festival. The first linh fish of the season, the fat, dark-black perch, slithering through the flooded grass, were all part of the flesh and blood of that countryside. And Tin, in the midst of his mentally drained days in the city, suddenly felt his heart tremble when he heard the sound of water gently lapping against the ground. “When the flood fish season comes, the water floats white on the fields, it is also the time when people’s hearts are filled with nameless memories…” *** There are things in life that people only realize are precious when they have gone too far away from them.
Like the smell of mud clinging to the fingers. Like the cold feeling when the water from the fields seeps into the intestines. And like the windless mornings when father and son went to set traps together in the flood season. Tin's childhood passed on the white-watered fields, halfway between heaven and earth and his small dreams. Water from upstream poured down in torrents, overflowing the fields, overflowing the banks, carrying with it the fish swimming upstream in search of a place to spawn.
The adults prepared the traps, traps, traps, and nets. The children were excited to follow their fathers, to wade in the water, to see the fish splashing around in the nets, and to cheer as if they had caught a whole season of joy. Tin clearly remembered that every year his father put aside his farming work and made dozens of traps out of nylon nets with curved iron edges. Then the two of them carried him out to the fields early in the morning, when the dew was still hanging over the rice shoots. The water was up to their knees, sometimes up to their hips. His father walked ahead to scout the way, while Tin followed closely behind, looking around to see if any fish were passing by. His father often told them: “Don’t step on the water snake’s hole, be careful where there are slippery algae.” They waded a long distance before starting to set the traps, each one a short distance apart. After setting the traps, father and son went home to rest for a bit, and returned at noon to check on the traps. Every time they pulled the traps up, Tin’s heart pounded. The nets jerked, something was struggling inside.
When seeing baby linh fish, fat perch, and bright yellow catfish, father and son were as happy as if they had found gold. Tin remembered most of all the look in his father's eyes at that moment - shining like a fire in the night. No need to say anything, just looking at him, you could tell how happy he was. When he brought the fish home, his mother took it, quickly cleaned it, seasoned it, and then cooked it in a pot of sour soup with the wild flowers picked from the garden. That dish, when you eat it, you still remember the smell. The sourness of tamarind, the sweetness of young linh fish, the faint fragrance of Vietnamese coriander and Vietnamese coriander. A rustic dish, cooked simply but when you are away, you miss it. Sometimes when there was too much fish, my mother would braise it in fish sauce, or fry it crispy with fish sauce, lemon, garlic and chili. The old corrugated iron kitchen was never short of laughter.
One time it rained heavily, father and son came home late, their clothes were wet, their hair was messy. Mother was still waiting, the flickering oil lamp illuminated her face gently, asking: "Did you catch a lot, father and son?" Not asking if there was a lot of fish, but asking if they were tired, cold, hungry. On flood season evenings, the whole family gathered around the dinner table. The sound of rain falling softly outside the thatched roof, the sound of mother pouring water, the sound of father telling jokes about the big catfish that almost tore the fish, about the trip in the middle of the field that made him covered in mud from head to toe. Each small memory like a grain of alluvium, contributed to form a solid dike of memories in Tin's heart. No matter where he went or how he lived, he would carry that dike with him to keep his heart from drifting away in life. The flood season was not only the season of fish returning, but also the season of overflowing love.
When he was young, Tin didn’t see anything special, he just thought it was natural. When he grew up and was far from home, he understood. Each fish caught in the trap was a part of his father’s hard work, a warm meal for his mother. Fish was not just food but a memory, the glue that bound my childhood to my parents and the fields. Once he asked his mother: “Why was my family so poor back then but I was so happy, Mom?”
Mom smiled, stroking his hair like when they were kids: “Because we are poor, we love each other more, my son.” Tin sat and thought, feeling his heart soften like mud under his feet after a night of flooding. The city over the past 10 years taught him how to make money, how to keep his dignity, how to live fast. But only here, in the middle of the vast white fields, in the old kitchen and with his father’s laughter, taught him how to live sincerely. “Fish is not just food but also a memory, the glue that binds my childhood with my parents, with the fields…” *** Tin left his hometown at the age of 18, carrying with him his dream of studying and a promise to his parents: “I will become a useful person”.
Coming to the city, he was like a fish thrown into a rushing stream, unfamiliar at first, then drifting along like a reflex. After graduating from university, he worked for a large media company. Every day was a rush, with projects, meetings, and relationships, people coming and going, no one could remember anyone for long. His father in the countryside called from time to time, his voice still warm but getting softer and softer: "The fish will be back next week, son, will you come back and set traps with me?" Tin hesitated and then refused. The reason was always the same: busy.
Busy like the shirt he wore every day, covering up the old things inside. Sometimes in the middle of the night, smelling the mud from memories, he almost called home to say “Dad is waiting for me”, but then stopped. The next morning, there were still meetings, emails, and unfinished plans. The countryside, linh fish, oil lamps... seemed to be in a world far away, so dim, remaining only in his dreams late at night. Then his mother passed away. He returned home to mourn in silence. The funeral was not crowded. The old neighbors, a few relatives on his mother’s side, and his father, thin and silent as a shadow.
Tin stood in front of his mother's altar, unable to cry. Not because he didn't feel any pain, but because the pain was so great that he was numb. When his mother was still alive, every time she called, she would just say, "Come home and have dinner with me." Tin kept putting it off. By the time he came home, the food was cold, and his mother was no longer sitting by the oil lamp waiting for him. From then on, Tin came home less and less. Partly because of work, partly because of fear. Afraid of facing the emptiness in a house without a woman's hand.
Afraid to hear the sound of mother's clogs in his memory and turn around and see no one. Afraid to see his father getting older day by day, and he was helpless, not knowing what to do other than send a little money home every month. This time, after nearly 2 years, he returned not because of the funeral, not because of the death anniversary, but because he was tired. Too tired. The hustle and bustle of the city seemed to erode him, gradually removing the layers of memories of the countryside that remained. His father now lived alone. The house was still the same, but the thatched roof had been replaced with corrugated iron. The backyard no longer had wild vegetables, but instead had a few rows of corn planted by a neighbor.
Father no longer went to the fields. His back was bent, his legs walked slowly, his eyes were dim, and his hearing was not as clear as before. When he saw Tin, he just nodded and did not ask much. It seemed that, after waiting for so many times without seeing him, Father did not want to hope anymore. In the afternoon, Tin walked to the fields. The water had risen to the white sand. But the fields were no longer as crowded as before. The children who used to go to set traps and pull nets now went to the city to study, or followed their parents to work in factories. Many fields had been sold to people to build farms, build dikes, and raise fish industrially.
Dong is still there, but quiet. As the old man stopped telling the old story. Tin stood in the middle of the dike bank, looking away. Dark sky. There was a slight wind whistling through the grass. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine the old scene: The voice of his father laughed when he hooked a lot of fish, his mother called out: "Tin, wash your hands to eat rice!". But the memory is like a dim film, only showing on each paragraph, fluttering. He suddenly found himself lost in the middle of his birth. Not because this place changes too much. But because he himself changed.
He used to flee the poverty, the mud, the countryside to rise up to become urban people. But then, after all, between the city lights there was no place, Tin realized what she was missing was not money, but a place for her heart to return. Perhaps the countryside has never left him. It's just that, he left it for too long.
***
That morning it was not sunny, only cloudy clouds like smoke made on the bamboo groves at the end of the garden. Tin is sitting on the steps, holding a cup of coffee mixed with old well water, when he heard his father's voice: "Today the water is growing ... or do I go to the field to put my child?". Tin turned, involuntarily hesitated. He looked at his father, smaller than before, the leaf hat on his head was frayed, carrying the old plastic basket peeled. That image was so familiar to the heart. How many times his father invited him, he refused. How many floating water seasons have passed, now only this season ... and the father is waiting quietly.
He nodded. No more. Only a nod, but it contained thousands of "apologies" that he had never uttered. Father did not smile, just nodded slightly, his eyes glanced at something like breathing. They crossed the old village road, now spreading rocks, the two sides of the grass are still wild. Going to the field, Tin smelled the smell of young mud, the smell of memories that many years he thought was lost. Copper white water, cool wind, and birds lonely chirping on the top of rice and sprouted after floods. The old field is still here, except that there are no more cheers to pull, only two shadows walking slowly in the middle of the sea of water.
Father dropped each of them into the water, his hand slowly but still firm. Tin goes later, learns every old movement. In the past, it was his father who taught him how to plug in the stream, how to see the water to know the fish or back and forth. Now, it is still a father, but his hair is more silver, his voice is deeper, and every step also looms the signs of time. At the time of visiting, the familiar thrilling feeling suddenly returned. Every time she pulled up, Tin's eyes light up like a child, her heart pounded. When he saw the fishing fish bustling inside, he laughed and laughed loudly but clear. The hand was deep into the mud, catching the fat catfish, recalling when she was young, she was stabbed, bloody and still fell in love.
That pristine joy has never disappeared, he just slept somewhere in him, waiting for the day to wake up. His father stood behind, looking at him and stooped, his gaze. He did not catch much fish, nor did he talk much. It was only when the father and son rested on the banks of the field that he punctured and said: "The fish is not as fun ... Going back to his father this time is enough." Tin turned to look at his father. Do not know because the sun shines straight or because of anything else, his eyes are spicy. A soft sentence, but choked him. For a long time, he kept thinking that he was busy, he was big, I had a reason to go away. But perhaps his father had never needed anything but once he came back, once he went to him to go to the field, laughing at him like the old days.
The field was as quiet as a sheet, only the sound of birds and the sound of the wind whispering through the dust. In the middle of the drum, for the first time in many years, Tin found himself that he found himself like a boy, wading along his father in the floating season, wet hair sweaty, hand -carrying fish basket, mouth incessantly laughing. And most importantly, he found himself belonging to this place. Not because of rice fields, not because of the spirit or monkey bridge, but because there is still a person walking with him quietly, slowly, but never left.
***
Tin is expected to only a few days. But after the dollar with his father that day, he stayed more. Then add a little more. Then did not bother to count anymore. Time passed slowly in the countryside, like the water passed by the weed. No one urged, nor did anyone need him to become great. He is just himself, a son of mud, the first season of the season and the sound of frogs at night tingling in the ditch. He assisted his father to fix the old hut in the field, where the old father used to be hammock lying at noon, listening to the cool breeze through the brooch.
The hut is now rotting, leaking roofs, bamboo rotten but when rebuilding each pillar, each wall, he feels like a rebuilding part of his childhood has broken in him. Then he replanted the bunch of vegetables behind the house, the cabbage, laksa leaves, coriander ... The mother land was still fertile, as long as anyone bent down. In the afternoon, Tin visited Mrs. Tu's neighbors, who used to give him a small baked potato. Going to Uncle Ba's house, listening to the story of the children now going to the city to be a company, some work as workers, motorbike taxi. He nodded, his hand poured tea, his heart was as bustling as he had been pounding a part of his life.
One day, it rained from the morning. Tin credits to the kitchen, according to the memory that cooks the same meal as the mother is still alive. Sour sour soup is crazy. Fried perch fried with lemon sauce with garlic and chili. The fragrance rises in the old kitchen, filled with the wall, into every fold of the shirt he is wearing. Father sat down to eat slowly, picking up pieces as feared to break the memory. Then he looked up, his eyes red: "The smell is like your mother cooked too ... Back then, she cooked, I ate three new cups."
Tin laughed. No saying anything. Just sitting opposite his father, in the middle of a simple countryside, but heard his heart so full that he could not breathe rapidly. The nights stayed, he took the pen and paper to sit on the steps. Write. Not for work, not for customers, not for any requirements. Just writing for yourself. For Father. For mom. For the old days, but still in the heart like the sound of water patting: "The season of fish" is his name for his first memoirs that are not beautiful, not melancholy. Just the fragments of childhood were assembled, each fish was exposed, every night listening to her mother cough outside the bamboo cot, each father's voice echoed in the immense water.
Where to write, he felt his heart to settle there. Writing, as if to keep this floating season, the last season he also went to order with his father, and also smelled the fried yellow perch in the kitchen of his mother used to stand. Later, maybe he will leave, return to the city, return to the bustling life he chose. But he knows, will never leave. Because the countryside did not hold him with the tied rope, but with the most gentle memories of his life. It lies in the smell of mud up after the rain. Lying in the eyes of Father John's day. Located in the sound of water patting late at night. And lying deep in every word he wrote, from a small corner in the middle of the field, where he was once again a child, belonged to. "Wherever you go, in me, the brass season will never run out."
His hometown is in a border area, where the flooding season is the sky and the sky changes the flesh. Back after 10 years, when he got off the car, he was surrounded by the familiar sound to his heart: the sound of the murmuring water overflowing, the sound of frogs tingling from the ditch, and the sound of the wind joking on the old bamboo groves. The smell of mud and mud, the smell of weeds has just been flooded, all rushed into a broken memory. In the floating water season, the fishing season, he once expected it as a part of his childhood. At that time, every afternoon wading fields placed, pulling chips, the most memorable days.
The small boat of Uncle Ba, the old neighbor was being pushed out of the shore. He saw him, his eyes lit up, smiled loudly: "That faith? My heaven and earth, today you see your face!". Tin saw his throat choking. He nodded, laughing softly, but in his heart was an emotional wave.
That night, sitting on the familiar bamboo cot behind the house, he heard the sound of insect tinge, looking at the moon behind the thin cloud. The heart suddenly went when he recalled his childhood days. Floating water season, bronze fish, children are eagerly like opening a festival. At the beginning of the season, the dark, fat, round black, crawling through the wet grass, all part of the flesh of the countryside. And Tin, in the middle of the mental exhausted days in the city, suddenly saw his heart trembling when he heard the sound of water patting into the side of the ground.
"The season of fish comes back, the water floating in the field, it is also the time when people are busy with unnamed memories ..."
***
There are things in life, people only realize it is precious when they have gone too far from it. Like the smell of young mud clinging to his fingers. Like the cold feeling when the copper water penetrates into the gut. And like the early days of the wind, the father and son went together in the middle of the floating season.
Tin's childhood drifted in white fields, halfway between heaven and earth and children's dreams. Water from upstream flows into rolling, overflowing, overflowing, sweeping the floods of the fields swimming upstream to find a place to give birth. Adults are prepared, lam, no, net. Children are eager to follow their father, to wade, see the fish struggling in the net and rang as if catching the whole happy season.
Tin remembered clearly, every year his father left the field, worried about making dozens of plastic net, curved iron border. Then the father and son carried it to the field early, when the dew was still full on the rice. Water to the knee, sometimes across the waist, the father went ahead to detect the road, the cruel followed, his eyes looked around to see if the fish passed by. Father often said: "Don't step on the cave of water snakes, carefully where you have a smooth algae."
They were a long time starting to release, each distance apart. After finishing putting it, the father and son went home a little, and returned to visit Lu. Every time I pulled up, Tin's heart pounded. The net shocked, there was something struggling inside. When seeing the fish, the ghost perch, the golden catfish, the father and son were happy as if they were gold. The most memorable Tin was his father's eyes at that time- lighting up like a spark in the night. No need to say anything, just look, know how happy he is.
The fish brought home, the mother took it, the hand was cleaned and cleaned, tasted and then cooked the sour soup with the cotton fluffy cotton. That dish, eating to old still miss the smell. The sourness of tamarind, the sweetness of young, fragrant fish of coriander, coriander. Country dishes, simple cooking but far away is remember. Sometimes fish are too much, mom brings fish sauce, or fried with lemon chili lemon sauce. The kitchen is old with an old corrugated iron but never lacks a laugh. Once it rained heavily, the father and son were late, wet clothes, tangled hair. Mom still waited, the oil lamp flawed to look at the face of her gentle face, asking: "A lot of father and son?".
Not having to ask more or less fish, but whether it is tired, is it cold, is it hungry?
In the evening of the flooding season, the whole family gathered around the tray of rice. The sound of the rain murmuring outside the leaf roof, the mother poured water, the father told the story of joking about the big catfish torn, about the tripping in the middle of the field that made the mud from head to toe. Every small memory like alluvial seeds, contributing to a solid memory in the belief. No matter where later, how to live, he still carried the dike to keep his heart from drifting in the middle of life.
The floating season is not only the fish season, but also a full love season. As a child, Tin did not see anything special, thinking that it was natural. Growing up, away from home, he absorbed. Each fish stick is a part of the father's hard work, a warm meal of the mother. Fish is not only a dish but a memory, a childhood adhesion to my parents, with the field.
Once, he asked his mother: "Why are you so poor at that time, but I'm so happy, mom?" Mom laughed, stroking his hair as he was young:
"In poor so I love each other more than that."
Tin sat recalling, hearing softness like mud at the back of a night of flooding. The city for the past 10 years taught him how to make money, how to keep his face, how to live quickly. But only here, in the middle of the immense white field, in the old kitchen and the voice of his father laughed for a while, teaching him how to live honestly.
"Fish is not only a dish but a memory, a childhood adhesive to my parents, with the field ..."
***
Tin left his hometown at the age of 18, carrying his dream of studying and a promise to his parents: "I will become a useful person". On the city, he was like a fish thrown into a fast, strange water, and then drifted as a reflex. After finishing college, he made a large media company. Every day is a hurry, projects, meetings, and then relationships with people coming, some people go, no one can remember anyone long.
Father in the countryside for a long time, his voice was still warm but became smaller and smaller: "The next week, the fish will come back, have you put it back to me?". Tin hesitated and refused. The reason is the same: busy.
Busy like the shirt he wore every day, covering the old things inside. Sometimes in the middle of the night, hearing the smell of mud from the memory, he almost called to say "Father waited for you", but then stopped. The next morning, still a meeting, an email, an incomplete plan. Country, fish, oil lamps ... seem to be in a different world, very dim, leaving only in the dream at night.
Then mother died.
He returned to mourning quietly. The funeral is not crowded. The relatives of the old neighbors, some relatives on the maternal side, and the father were thin, silent like the shadow. Tin stood in front of the altar of the mother and could not cry. Not because of pain, but because of pain, numbness. When she was still alive, every time she called, she only told: "Go back to eat with her mother a child." Tin kept begging. When she returned, the tray was cold, and she no longer waited for the oil lamp.
Since then, the less Tin came back. Part of work, partly because of fear. Afraid of facing the emptiness in the house without a woman's hand. Afraid of hearing the mother's clogs in her memory and turning back to see no one. Afraid of getting older father every day, but I am helpless, not knowing what to do other than sending some money every month.
This time, after nearly 2 years, he just returned from mourning, not because of the death anniversary, but because he himself was tired. So tired. The hustle and bustle of the city made him worn out, gradually dropped each layer of memories of the countryside.
Father is alone. Still the old house, but the leaf roof has been replaced by corrugated iron. The back garden has no wild vegetables, instead of a few corn beds planted by the neighbor. Father did not go to the field anymore. The back cuffs down, the legs are slow, blurred vision, the headset is not as clear as before. When he saw Tin, he just nodded, not asking much. Looks like, after the waiting time, he did not want to expect anymore.
In the afternoon, Tin walked to the field. Water has been white. But Dong is not as crowded as ever. The old children went to book, pulled the chain, now went to the street to study, or followed their parents to work as a workshop. The fields have been sold to farmers, embankments, and industrial fish. Dong is still there, but quiet. As the old man stopped telling the old story.
Tin stood in the middle of the dike bank, looking away. Dark sky. There was a slight wind whistling through the grass. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine the old scene: The voice of his father laughed when he hooked a lot of fish, his mother called out: "Tin, wash your hands to eat rice!". But the memory is like a dim film, only showing on each paragraph, fluttering. He suddenly found himself lost in the middle of his birth.
Not because this place changes too much. But because he himself changed.
He used to flee the poverty, the mud, the countryside to rise up to become urban people. But then, after all, between the city lights there was no place, Tin realized what she was missing was not money, but a place for her heart to return.
Perhaps the countryside has never left him. It's just that, he left it for too long.
***
That morning it was not sunny, only cloudy clouds like smoke made on the bamboo groves at the end of the garden. Tin is sitting on the steps, holding a cup of coffee mixed with old well water, then heard the father's voice:
"Today the country is growing ... or is we going to the field?".
Tin turned, involuntarily hesitated. He looked at his father, smaller than before, the leaf hat on his head was frayed, carrying the old plastic basket peeled. That image was so familiar to the heart. How many times his father invited him, he refused. How many floating water seasons have passed, now only this season ... and the father is waiting quietly.
He nodded.
No more. Only a nod, but it contained thousands of "apologies" that he had never uttered. Father did not smile, just nodded slightly, his eyes glanced at something like breathing.
They crossed the old village road, now spreading rocks, the two sides of the grass are still wild. Going to the field, Tin smelled the smell of young mud, the smell of memories that many years he thought was lost. Copper white water, cool wind, and birds lonely chirping on the top of rice and sprouted after floods. The old field is still here, except that there are no more cheers to pull, only two shadows walking slowly in the middle of the sea of water.
Father dropped each of them into the water, his hand slowly but still firm. Tin goes later, learns every old movement. In the past, it was his father who taught him how to plug in the stream, how to see the water to know the fish or back and forth. Now, it is still a father, but his hair is more silver, his voice is deeper, and every step also looms the signs of time.
At the time of visiting, the familiar thrilling feeling suddenly returned. Every time she pulled up, Tin's eyes light up like a child, her heart pounded. When he saw the fishing fish bustling inside, he laughed and laughed loudly but clear. The hand was deep into the mud, catching the fat catfish, recalling when she was young, she was stabbed, bloody and still fell in love. That pristine joy has never disappeared, he just slept somewhere in him, waiting for the day to wake up.
His father stood behind, looking at him and stooped, his gaze. He did not catch much fish, nor did he talk much. It was only when the father and son were resting on the banks of the field, and he said:
"Fish is not as fun ... coming back to your father is enough."
Tin turned to look at his father. Do not know because the sun shines straight or because of anything else, his eyes are spicy. A soft sentence, but choked him. For a long time, he kept thinking that he was busy, he was big, I had a reason to go away. But perhaps his father had never needed anything but once he came back, once he went to him to go to the field, laughing at him like the old days.
The field was as quiet as a sheet, only the sound of birds and the sound of the wind whispering through the dust.
In the middle of the drum, for the first time in many years, Tin found himself that he found himself like a boy, wading along his father in the floating season, wet hair sweaty, hand -carrying fish basket, mouth incessantly laughing. And most importantly, he found himself belonging to this place.
Not because of rice fields, not because of the spirit or monkey bridge, but because there is still a person walking with him quietly, slowly, but never left.
***
Tin is expected to only a few days. But after the dollar with his father that day, he stayed more. Then add a little more. Then did not bother to count anymore. Time passed slowly in the countryside, like the water passed by the weed. No one urged, nor did anyone need him to become great. He is just himself, a son of mud, the first season of the season and the sound of frogs at night tingling in the ditch.
He assisted his father to fix the old hut in the field, where the old father used to be hammock lying at noon, listening to the cool breeze through the brooch. The hut is now rotting, leaking roofs, bamboo rotten but when rebuilding each pillar, each wall, he feels like a rebuilding part of his childhood has broken in him. Then he replanted the bunch of vegetables behind the house, the cabbage, laksa leaves, coriander ... The mother land was still fertile, as long as anyone bent down.
In the afternoon, Tin visited Mrs. Tu's neighbors, who used to give him a small baked potato. Going to Uncle Ba's house, listening to the story of the children now going to the city to be a company, some work as workers, motorbike taxi. He nodded, his hand poured tea, his heart was as bustling as he had been pounding a part of his life.
One day, it rained from the morning. Tin credits to the kitchen, according to the memory that cooks the same meal as the mother is still alive. Sour sour soup is crazy. Fried perch fried with lemon sauce with garlic and chili. The fragrance rises in the old kitchen, filled with the wall, into every fold of the shirt he is wearing. Father sat down to eat slowly, picking up pieces as feared to break the memory. Then he looked up, his eyes red: "The smell is like your mother cooked too ... Back then, she cooked, I ate three new cups."
Tin laughed. No saying anything. Just sitting opposite his father, in the middle of a simple countryside, but heard his heart so full that he could not breathe rapidly.
The nights stayed, he took the pen and paper to sit on the steps. Write. Not for work, not for customers, not for any requirements. Just writing for yourself. For Father. For mom. For the old days, but still in the heart like the sound of water flapping:
"Copper fish season"
It was his name for his first memoirs that were not beautiful, not melancholy. Just the fragments of childhood were assembled, each fish was exposed, every night listening to her mother cough outside the bamboo cot, each father's voice echoed in the immense water.
Where to write, he felt his heart to settle there. Writing, as if to keep this floating season, the last season he also went to order with his father, and also smelled the fried yellow perch in the kitchen of his mother used to stand.
Later, maybe he will leave, return to the city, return to the bustling life he chose. But he knows, will never leave. Because the countryside did not hold him with the tied rope, but with the most gentle memories of his life.
It lies in the smell of mud up after the rain. Lying in the eyes of Father John's day. Located in the sound of water patting late at night. And lying deep in every word he wrote, from a small corner in the middle of the field, where he was once again a child, belonged to.
"Wherever you go, in me, the fish season will never run out."
Lien Pham
Source: https://baovinhlong.com.vn/van-hoa-giai-tri/tac-gia-tac-pham/202508/truyen-ngan-mua-ca-dong-8a62345/
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