https://chienphan.blogspot.com/2015/02/cho-4-nguoi-i-buon-hon-cu.html
https://chienphan.blogspot.com/2013/01/cho-2.html
https://chienphan.blogspot.com/2013/02/cho-3-nhan-sinh-nhu-mong.html
https://chienphan.blogspot.com/2015/02/cho-4-nguoi-i-buon-hon-cu.html
https://chienphan.blogspot.com/2017/01/cho-5-mot-tinh-yeu.html
https://doisales.com.vn/index.php/2024/02/07/cho-6-bot-chuyen-doi-ba-muoi/
https://doisales.com.vn/index.php/2024/02/08/cho-7-co-gai-song-mai-voi-thanh-xuan/
https://doisales.com.vn/index.php/2024/02/09/cho-8-dung-phu-noi-minh-da-sinh-ra/
The 27th of Tết. Night. Waiting for a new day. Arranging the goods once more. They have just come up from a stretch of the river. Fresh and glistening. A few jokes shared. A few curses tossed into the air. Pitching mosquito nets. Sleeping. Right in the heart of the market.
A white night that forgets the dew. The oil lamp flickers. Many are kept awake by the weight of their hearts. Worries. Divergent paths. I keep watch over the night—the 27th of Tết. A naive childhood. Wanting to stay awake until dawn, yet falling into a deep sleep, remembering nothing. Not even waiting for Spring. For what Spring could be as joyous as the Spring of this very night? This market life. Afraid to miss the sight of those mosquito net roofs. Those fragile lives in the early morning dew.
Scanning the stalls. Counting the nets. A childhood habit. That one is Granny Hai; she re-wraps her checkered khăn rằn over hair dyed the color of white smoke. Over there is Granny Tam; snoring rhythmically in a sleep that has forgotten how to worry. Further down is Uncle Tam; picking off a few pest-eaten leaves, his lips curling into a smile as he exhales smoke… So many. So many of them. Just passing by. Everyday life.
Growing up. Seeking to understand. Childhood memories…
The 27th of Tết. The night before the battle. Preparing for the final two or three market sessions. Whether to have a small Tết or a grand one. Whether to turn a profit or lose it all. Everything hinges on this night. Prayers. Arranging the goods like loading a magazine, swapping bullets. The skirmish begins at the crack of dawn. The morning broadcast replaces the sound of gunfire. The hour of mobilization. Which clothes to wear? Put on a fresh, bright face. Forget the exhaustion of the long night that just passed. Now, it is only about "rice and salt"—the livelihood for the family waiting back home. Waiting for these last two or three market days. The end.
Growing up. Returning in a hurry. Even the pebbles on the road forget one's name…
A missed appointment late at night. The 27th of Tết. Little did I know, bit by bit, things would fade. The laughter and jokes. The casual cursing. The oil lamp flickers out. Where have the days gone? Lost. The checkered scarf dyed the color of white smoke. The heavy breathing in a sleep that forgot to worry. The lips smiling through the smoke… So many. So many of them. Everyday life. Passing by. Indifferent.
The 29th. The 30th. How many Tếts has it been now? I can’t remember. These final days of the year. A few footsteps. Wandering. Missing the market. Missing the people. Coming back just to see. Two rows of stalls. The water flows… Longing. To come back. To remember forever… oh, you lot! My hands and feet no longer obey me. Now I don’t know where to rest myself, or when. It is no longer a stall. It is no longer a night. The 27th of Tết. Waiting. Dawn. Sunset… they have come. So hurried.
The 29th. The 30th. Reaching this Tết. The final days of the year. A few footsteps. Wandering. Growing sparse. Fading through the worn-out years. Will there be a return? To curse a few words. Oh, how I miss the market, you lot!
Two rows. Water flowing. Short and long. The 30th day of Tết.
Không có nhận xét nào:
Đăng nhận xét