Far away from the old place

Illustration: Phan Nhan

Rach Bong Dua – that name, both rustic and poetic, suddenly came to mind.

Three years ago, I stood lost in thought in front of a house built in the old Southern Vietnamese style, its tiled roof crumbling, its paint peeling, one door broken, and crumbling bricks scattered on the floor… and whispered, just loud enough for me to hear: “I will definitely come back here, because this is my roots!”

Even now, I haven't had the chance to return. My heart is filled with a profound sadness. A deep longing for my roots continues to stir in my subconscious…

I no longer have many memories of the familiar faces in that house. Partly because I was too young back then, and partly because time has passed so quickly. When I returned, there was no one there anymore. The only memory I have is of a lush durian orchard, laden with fruit in season. From the house, a winding, smooth stone path led to the durian orchard. It was the path that meandered through the orchard, the same path I used to stroll along in the afternoons when I visited my father. Back then, I wore my hair in pigtails, a light blue bamboo-woven blouse, cotton trousers, and held my father's soft hand as we walked in the afternoon sunlight filtering through the durian leaves, shimmering like a thousand tinsel threads.

My dad's hands are so soft! My mom says my hands are like his, hands that don't belong to someone who works hard.

But my father's life was hard; he single-handedly built this entire durian orchard. He lived a life of toil, wearing a worn-out, patched shirt that still managed to withstand countless seasons of sun and rain. Whenever my mother talked about him, her eyes would light up with deep pride. On weekends, she would often row me across the Bong Dua canal to visit my father. She would sit behind the rudder, and I would sit at the bow. Occasionally, I would scoop up some cool water or pick a sprig of fragrant purple water hyacinth. My mother said that water hyacinths are the soul of our homeland's rivers and waterways. I would hold up a sprig of water hyacinth to the sunlight, letting it shimmer on the river's surface. I would huddle up, watching the sunset, my heart still yearning for the moment the boat would dock, my father would get out, take my hand, and my mother would step back up, whispering countless stories to me.

My father's image has always been beautiful in my mind. Even now…

Once, I asked my mother:

- Mom! Dad loves us so much, why don't we stay with him?

My mother remained silent, not answering. The wind from the Bong Dua canal blew into the house, carrying the strong scent of corn stalks with their leaves just beginning to unfurl. After a while, my mother replied:

There are things you can't understand yet. You're too young! When you grow up, I'll explain.

I mumbled something to brush it off, but my heart was still heavy with doubt about my mother's answer. It was a half-hearted response, leaving me unsatisfied. The question in my mind grew even bigger.

My father remained the same, quietly tending to the durian orchard from dawn till dusk, caring for my grandmother's grave, and planting flowers along the stone path leading from the riverbank to our house because, when she was young, my mother loved all kinds of flowers, in shades of green and red. I noticed that every time my mother visited him, he was very happy. He would smile broadly, his eyes shining with joy. Even as a child, I understood how important my mother and I were to him.

I nestled my head against my father's chest. The lush green durian orchard cast a refreshing shade, enveloping my father and me. My father cleared his throat a few times. He had been coughing lately because of the change in weather. Before leaving, my mother had stopped at the coriander patch by the porch to pick some celery leaves for him to use as medicine. I whispered the same thing to him as I had to my mother, and he just smiled gently without explaining why. After a moment of silence, he murmured something exactly like what my mother had said to me. I showed my displeasure, pulled away from his warm embrace, and stormed into the house. My father chuckled softly as he watched my retreating figure.

The golden sunlight faded away.

My visits to my father continued, giving me the opportunity to gaze at the Bong Dua canal through both the dry and rainy seasons. My mother would take me along on the canal on rainy afternoons and on sunny days. It seemed that every time, I was happy to visit my father's house, but I would feel deeply sad upon returning, especially when I saw him standing by the riverbank, watching my mother and me until night fell and the mournful cry of the palm trees echoed through the river...

From a young age, I've been afraid of change in life, from major changes to small ones. Like the weekend afternoons, the sunny days spent with my mother visiting my father, which had become a habit, now changed, and I find it unbearable. Those afternoons that I would normally spend at my father's house, I now sit on the porch drying my hair, feeling bored and meaningless. My heart feels so empty! I gaze blankly at the silent boat at the dock. My mother continues to quietly light the fire and cook rice. The scent of cooking smoke fills the air.

I looked at my mother for a long time. I quietly asked:

Mom, why don't we go visit Dad like we used to?

My mother covered the pot with the freshly scooped rice, and a faint aroma wafted into my nose. After a moment of silence, she said:

- From now on, I won't be visiting Dad anymore. Will you be sad, Ha?

I nodded, feeling as if tears were about to well up and roll down my cheeks.

My mother continued:

- Don't be sad, my child! You'll understand what I'm doing now eventually.

I didn't understand, my heart was in turmoil. My mother didn't need to know if I understood or not, but for a long time, she and I no longer swayed on the small boat across the Bong Dua canal to visit my father in the fiery red sunset…

It wasn't until I was older, after I finished high school, that my mother brought up the old story, reminding me of memories of my father. She wanted me to understand why, back then, she didn't take me to my father's house in her small boat in the afternoons, so that he could hold my hand and we could stroll through the lush durian orchard.

My mother said through tears, "I was born into unusual circumstances. Back then, because she trusted a stranger, she left her old house with my father's durian orchard, left the Bong Dua canal to follow a man who promised her a comfortable and prosperous life." Wiping away her tears, she confessed that in her youth, she felt she didn't belong in this remote, desolate place. She couldn't live day after day confined to the house, doing the chores that women here usually do, like cooking and washing dishes. She was tired of the sound of the palm trees chirping in the dew every afternoon, and weary of the nights when the power went out, leaving the village deserted, devoid of any sign of life.

"You're a city girl. You should live in a luxurious place, with a car to pick you up and drop you off whenever you go out..." - The man's words from that year still echo in my mother's subconscious, haunting even her dreams.

Then my mother left the Bong Dua canal area at the beginning of the rainy season. At that time, my mother didn't know that another life was growing and developing inside her day by day. That life was me.

My mother's time in the city was short-lived. The picture that stranger had painted for her didn't live up to her expectations. Upon discovering she was pregnant, the stranger turned his back on her, betraying her just as she had betrayed my father. As her due date approached, my mother decided to return to the countryside, believing life there was easier. At that moment, she finally accepted her fate…

But my mother didn't return to my father. She had someone build a small thatched house in the neighboring village, on the land my maternal grandfather had left to his daughter, and lived there through difficult times. I was born on a moonlit night, thanks to my mother's efforts to save a baby whose umbilical cord was wrapped around its tiny body. I grew up half like my mother, half like my father. The older I got, the more I resembled him. In my memory, my father was kind, gentle, and I believe he never harbored any resentment towards my mother…

My mother recounted old stories with tears in her eyes. I sat beside her, sobbing along with her. Wiping away her tears, she gently asked me:

- Ha, are you angry with me for betraying your father?

I was momentarily stunned, then I shook my head:

No, Mom! I'm old enough to understand that mistakes can happen in life.

My mother lowered her head.

I blurted out another question:

- Mom, why didn't you take me to visit Dad that day? It's not far from our house to the Bông Dừa canal, yet we didn't go for such a long time. Dad was waiting…

My mother looked deep into my eyes, then whispered:

- Because your father also needed his own happiness. Back then, I understood that your father still needed a woman to share his life with, to empathize with him, to shoulder household chores, and to nurture love. But that person couldn't be me. I'm so guilty towards your father; I can never erase my mistakes for the rest of my life…

I burst into tears like a child. It seemed like a long time since I last cried, so my tears flowed uncontrollably like the first rain of the season.

Suddenly, an image flickered in my mind: my father standing on the shore, waving goodbye to my mother and me on that last afternoon I saw him… And it still lingers in my mind to this day…

And from then on, I could never see my father's face again. Three years ago, when I finally mustered the courage to return to the Bông Dừa canal, following the remnants of old memories, I reached my father's old house and durian orchard. The orchard was still there, but the house had collapsed, leaving only fragments of peeling paint on the walls. I asked the people around, and they said my father had passed away on a windy afternoon, a peaceful death from a sudden heart attack. But he didn't close his eyes... And my aunt, shortly afterward, also brought my father's portrait back to her birthplace, and also tried to live out the rest of her life...

I followed the stone path to the old durian orchard, now under new ownership. A part of my father's grave lies there. The color of the grave is gentle, like the earth. Fragrant flowers and exotic plants grow abundantly around it. I knelt before my father's grave.

...

Now, my mother and I no longer live in our old hometown. We've moved to the city, living amidst the hustle and bustle. It's strange, when she was young, my mother dreamed so much of city life, the noisy traffic, the lively chatter. Now, she misses her hometown terribly; she misses the small river, she misses the small boat that used to rock on the waters of the Bông Dừa canal to visit my father in the afternoon sun… And she longs for the image of my father…

"Mom, I really want to go visit Dad's grave! I miss him so much! I've been dreaming about him for nights. He held my hand as we stepped out of the small boat onto the shore, just like before. His hand was so soft..."

My mother looked at me; her eyesight had faded somewhat, but she still looked so beautiful! The beauty of the country girl from the old days was still etched in her memory. "Yes, I miss Dad too, I love him! In my heart, he will always be the most beautiful image!"

I rested my head on my mother's shoulder. Her shoulder was as soft as my father's loving hand.

My father's image flickers in my memory again…

Source: https://baolamdong.vn/van-hoa-nghe-thuat/202506/xa-xam-chon-cu-d2f39e4/