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https://chienphan.blogspot.com/2012/07/mua-o-moilo-hen.html
https://chienphan.blogspot.com/2012/07/mua-o-moilo-hen-2.html
https://chienphan.blogspot.com/2012/07/au-o-vi-dau-cau-dan-ong-inh-cau-tre-lac.html
Her mother laughed. Her father laughed. The neighbors, everyone laughed. It was a wedding, after all—how could they not? The children clamored, jostling to catch a glimpse of the bride and groom. They crowded around the coconut-leaf gate, woven into blooming flowers, waiting to see the couple with their own eyes. They laughed too. And she laughed. Why she laughed, she didn't know.
Perhaps she laughed with her mother, who was overjoyed because the thatched roof had been replaced by shiny corrugated iron sheets; the sunlight glinting off them was so bright it stung the eyes. Yet, there was a quiet thrill in it, for she had never dreamed of more, back when every rainy season meant kitchen smoke and evening fires billowed up, soot-staining the roof. The only dry spot left was under the brownish-yellow thatch.
Perhaps she laughed with her father, seeing him so proud as so many people came to watch his daughter marry a foreigner. The groom seemed kind to his wife—building a house, preparing the wedding trays, and giving so many gifts to the family as a token of gratitude for raising his bride. Her father knew nothing; he just listened to the matchmaker’s endless chatter while the son-in-law merely uttered unintelligible sounds. But what did it matter? It had been so long since his lips had stretched that far into a smile; usually, after dinner, he would just lean against the house pillar, letting cigarette smoke drift. Distantly. Perhaps he yearned for a son.
Perhaps she laughed with the relatives and neighbors. Everyone was bustling about, greeting the groom even though neither side understood the other, grabbing shoulders and laughing loudly with endless praise. "This lad looks like a good catch, hey!" Since the day she left for the city to escape poverty, seeking some hidden corner far from the village to rise above the shame, fearing that the "bitter soup" of every late afternoon would leave her heart feeling desolate. Deeply. Three long years of drifting through rented life, not a penny saved for her future. Her mother would always lift her shirt hem to wipe her eyes whenever dowries were mentioned. Choking up. She had heard people say marrying a foreigner would make life easier, despite the news and TV reporting so many bloody love stories. There were Americans, Taiwanese, and Koreans too; when she watched TV after work with the other girls, she saw that Korean men were incredibly handsome and chivalrous in every way. There was a bit of a dream, a bit of a fantasy, but what could she do—a girl, after all—her parents kept sighing, wondering if anyone would ever love her. Poverty clung to her feet like stubborn mud. Unwashed.
Or perhaps she laughed with the children. They laughed, but did they even know why? Just as innocent as their pranks at the head and end of the village that made the elders scold them loudly. As carefree as the evening breeze crossing the fields, pushing the rice stalks toward the river to greet the blooming Cassia flowers floating downstream. Where they were headed, nobody knew. Wherever they go, they go. The matchmaker claimed she would live in luxury over there, as if she had been born for it. It felt awkward, yet she wanted to believe it, so that she could wear an áo dài just once, with her hair neatly bunned and her eyes made up with brownish-black shadow, smudged by tears. She had helped at many weddings, laughing heartily at the women who would lift the curtain with eyes brimming with tears; it felt so melodramatic back then: You're getting married, not dying, why cry? Yet, her own eyes were brimming before she even realized it.
Laughed with her? Was the world going mad? What did she have to laugh about? She just followed suit. Because on the hurried wedding night, while the croaking of frogs echoed from the neighbor's side as if harmonizing with the rising tide, she was busy packing to catch the trip to a strange land the next morning; there was no real "wedding night" to speak of. Her mother packed her clothes, saying something she couldn't quite hear, only catching fragments through sobs: "The Cassia flower season is back again, my child." What did it have to do with anything? Every year she was away from home, her mother would wait for the Cassia flowers to bloom and call to say the year was almost over: "When the Cassia flowers fall, come home, okay?" On her wedding day, on her wedding night, her mother was talking about things that didn't seem to fit. She still didn't know men.
Suddenly, she craved Cassia fruit. It was her mother’s fault, who else? When she was little, her mother would pick Cassia fruit for the two sisters to eat instead of candies, every time she saw them looking longingly at the neighbor's kids who got expensive gifts from their parents. Now that she’s grown, she’s addicted to it. But this land has none; the first days in a strange place were so freezing, soaking her soul until her tears ran dry in the place called her husband’s home. Sleeping was like eating a Cassia fruit—peeling the two sides of the husk to reveal the part inside, then devouring it. Tattered. Bleeding. She had known many men.
A tart taste with a sweet aftertaste! A senseless memory. She could see herself flickering across the fields, running out to the riverbank to hurriedly pick Cassia fruit, her laughter echoing across the river reflecting the evening sun, hearing her mother’s distant calling to be careful of the whirlpools, lest she slip and drown. Drowning. Drowning in labored breaths, the weight of flesh pressing down, hair flying wildly. Pain. Loss.
The Cassia flowers must be falling all over the river now, leaves following the current. At this time last year, her mother would have called already; her father would be pacing in and out, asking her mother if she had called yet so she could be back in time for the restless wind. The kids would be playing their pranks again, and the neighbors would be chatting lively. But why hasn't her mother called this year? She got married, she didn't leave forever. But how could she call? There was no way to get in touch. And even if she did call, I probably couldn't come home, Mother.
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