"The weather's a bit chilly these days, and my legs ache a little! But don’t worry, I’m still as strong as an ox. Ha ha."
The wind chuckled softly. The tree smiled faintly. Its leaves quivered.
"Of course, not as strong as back in the day. Those days... Crossing fields, carrying a rifle. Striding boldly, firm in faith, marching forward. A few stalks of rice swayed and danced in the breeze. A moonlit night.
Now, these feet remember the past, trembling every night. Looking out the window at the moon reflecting on the water. Floating gently. Sitting there, lost in thought, not understanding why.
Do you remember? I loved the moon. It was because of the moon that I met you. Shimmering, your jet-black hair carried the scent of herbs. I was lost... in love. A young soldier, enchanted. Watching your long, silky hair, wet at the bridge’s end, glistening in the moonlight. The grass and trees held me in place, rooted. I stood there, staring, afraid I’d never see you again in this lifetime of a soldier.
Do you remember?! You laughed and asked, 'Why are you standing there like a tree, huh?' Late at night, the small waves whispered, carrying their secret affection to the shore. And so I followed you—chasing after your shadow, hurriedly, with a rifle on my shoulder. Carrying letters. A courier by fate. You and I, the frontline and the homefront, bound together in the days of war and bombs."
"The kids aren’t coming home this New Year. They’re busy with work, you know. Don’t blame them. Kids are like that. A parent’s tears always flow down, never back. The grandkids keep us company, keeping things lively. How could they make the trip back here? Really."
The wind sighed. The tree closed its eyes. Its leaves drooped.
"Those grandkids, they’re adorable. Each one is like us—cheeky, mischievous. But they bring joy. I scold them, but I end up laughing right in the middle of the house. The kids yell, 'Dad, don’t do that! You’re spoiling them.' And yet, I just laugh louder. They’re just kids, after all.
Our eldest—he’s a director now. A sharp businessman, traveling everywhere. East, West, Europe, Asia—he knows all these places. But that pond behind our house? He doesn’t remember it, does he? Remember how he almost drowned swimming naked in there as a kid? Got a good whipping for that. His wife giggles every time I tell the story.
But he’s always away. His son, little Cún, doesn’t even remember his scent. He’s closer to some guy, Uncle Dũng, who often visits. His mother sits in the corner, looking at me with watery eyes, ashamed, as if pleading. Angry at him—our son—always gone."
"Our second child, she’s doing okay too. One foot in government work, the other outside of it. Caught in the mud, I guess. Always so formal with everyone—yes sir, no sir. Who knows what she’s giving away? When she turns around, she mutters things like curses. Let it be. It’s government work; you can’t please everyone, can you? So many people.
Her husband, though, hasn’t been doing well. He’s quiet and sullen, always frowning when someone glances at him. Frowning, then retreating into silence. Can’t even talk to her. Just sits there, brooding. But he visits us often. Maybe to escape her. Who knows? All I know is, I have a drinking buddy now. Life’s sorrows, you know? But whatever."
"I don’t get how these young folks love each other these days. Don’t understand their kind of love. Really. Oh, but listen! Someone said she loves me, you know? Ha ha. She’s nearly two or three cycles younger than me!"
The wind shot a sly glance. The tree peeked sideways. Its leaves whispered.
"Don’t look at me like that. I’m serious. This girl, she loves listening to my old stories. War stories. Heroic tales. She says I’m never lonely.
She often comes with me. Often. Visits old comrades, now resting deep in the earth. Every anniversary, she asks so many questions, it’s endearing. About the soldiers. I tell her all about my comrades—those who haven’t come back yet, still lying somewhere in this beloved land.
She comes to our house every day. Whenever she’s free. Sometimes with a bowl of chè, other times with a bunch of bananas. Just what I like. She loves sharing these old tales. And then, she sits there until evening, laughing and crying with this old soldier, reliving the smoke and flames.
Still remembering the scent of herbs under the moonlight. Shimmering, illuminating my heart. That hair of yours, flowing in the breeze. Those words, boldly spoken. Loved forever.
She says she loves me. Doesn’t need me to love her back. And in the quiet evenings, she leaves silently, as the dusk falls. Her shadow in the twilight. Her silhouette in the dawn. Strange, isn’t it? Funny, right? Ha ha."
"I laugh when I hear her. At night, lying there, I think about it. Laugh some more. Now I’m telling you, and I’m laughing again."
"Restless, I light an incense stick. The fragrant smoke lingers, swirling. I clean the faded photograph. The gravestone. The moment between seasons, here in the cemetery.
Maybe she truly loves me, huh? The wine today tastes a little bitter. Truly."
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