About the old porch

In the vague memories of the village, there is always a porch. That is where the tree arches shaded the children playing jump rope; where the bamboo rows rustled on summer afternoons waiting for their friends to come to class; where grandma placed her brown plastic chair to lean against, chewing betel with her teeth, and telling a few stories starting with "back then".

In her youth, she was also pursued by many men in the village. My grandfather had to plant a banyan tree for a long time before he dared to ask her out. The smoke of war burned down my great-grandmother's house. She carried her mother and ran through the forest on her bare, muddy feet. The children squatted around her, resting their chins on their hands, listening by the porch and the small yard. Sometimes, they asked this and that, full of ignorance: Why did you like my grandfather back then? What would you do with your belongings when you were running away from the war? My grandmother laughed, her wrinkled eyes tilted to her hairline. The conversation was often interrupted by bursts of laughter. Thus, this place became a place for stories of the past.

She liked to sit on the porch, holding a betel leaf that had just been limed. On windy days, she wrapped a black velvet scarf around her head. She often squinted, looking out into the alley. A few three-year-old children were playing five-ten and arguing loudly. As the sun set, students cycled past, calling each other to play marbles after returning home to put away their school bags. The peaceful sound of the village permeated the porch, making people's hearts flow with the calm flow. There was the sound of dogs barking in the distance, and the yellow filament bulb hanging in front of the porch was also turned on. Mother spread out a mat and carried the dinner tray, the sound of dishes and chopsticks clanging mixed with the croaking of frogs in the fields. On the mat spread out on the porch, the old stories were told again.

The old porch always holds many memories. Photo: XUAN THAN

The porch was also where she often sat to dry her hair. Her salt-and-pepper hair smelled of early-season grapefruit, and was let loose and gently wiped with a long towel that had shed its hair. Her hair, which she usually tied up in a bun at the back, now had grown a little longer than her waist. Several times she combed her hair with a wooden comb with a few broken teeth, her hair had ended up tangled around her like a loom. She gently untied it and kept it with the fallen, tangled hair, waiting for someone to call out to her on the porch to sell. A few ice creams or yogurts were exchanged from the tangled hair for the children sitting and listening to her tell stories on the porch to satisfy their hunger.

The chicks chirped in the yard, or circled around her feet in the midday sun. She sat on the porch, scattered a few handfuls of rice, then boredly plucked a bunch of red butterfly leaves, tied them into fish shapes, and hung them on the fence. The children looked over and chattered, also excitedly plucking leaves and learning from her to make fish shapes. The small fish kept wriggling in the yard, learning to swim on land in the blazing summer sun. The cicadas chirped on the old royal poinciana tree at the village entrance, as if prolonging the peaceful yard in the children's minds. Summer came, and they had more free time to listen to their grandmother tell stories under the porch.

Just like that, her stories on the porch became a place for the children in the neighborhood to deposit their memories. When they go far away, they will still miss their hometown and the small porch of the past. Maybe they no longer remember clearly the stories she told. But every time they see her sitting on the plastic chair on the porch, the sounds tinged with memories will echo in their ears...

Perhaps, everyone has their own porch to anchor in life.

NGUYEN TRAN THANH TRUC

Source: https://www.sggp.org.vn/ve-mai-hien-xua-post793690.html