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 Night of Tet
Night. Waiting for the new day. Arranging goods once more. Fresh from the river. Laughing. Cursing playfully. Setting up mosquito nets. Sleeping. In the middle of the market.
A sleepless night, forgetting the dew. The oil lamp flickers. Many stay awake, burdened with thoughts and worries. Different, yet the same. It watches the night—the 27th of Tet. Childhood, naïve and wide-eyed. Wanting to stay up all night, yet dozing off, forgetting. Not waiting for spring. But what spring is as joyous as this night? The market life. Afraid to miss the makeshift beds. The early morning lives.
Looking at the stalls. Counting the nets. A childhood habit. That’s Granny Hai, wrapping her checkered scarf over hair dyed with white smoke. Over there, Granny Tam, breathing heavily in a sleep too deep to worry. And Uncle Tam, picking off a few wilted leaves, smiling as he exhales smoke… So many. So many lives. Just passing by. An everyday scene.
Growing up. Learning. Collecting childhood memories…
The 27th of Tet. The night before battle. For two, three final market days. A small or grand Tet. A profit or a loss. It all hinges on this night. Praying. Arranging goods like loading a rifle, changing bullets. The battle begins at dawn. The morning broadcast replaces the sound of gunfire. The hour of war. What clothes to wear. What smile to put on. Forgetting the exhaustion of the long night just passed. Only thinking of rice and grain. The households behind, waiting for these final two or three days.
Growing up. Leaving in a hurry. Forgetting the name of stones on the road…
A late-night promise broken. The 27th of Tet. Unnoticed, slowly fading. The laughter. The cursing. The oil lamp dimmed. Where have the days gone? Lost. The checkered scarf, now a shade of smoke. The heavy breathing, lost in sleep. The smiling lips, exhaling smoke… So many. So many lives. Just passing by. Indifferent.
The 29th. The 30th. How many Tet have passed? Can't recall. The final days of the year. Wandering steps. Missing the market. Missing the people. Returning to visit. Tears fall in two streams... Longing. Wanting to return. Never letting go… Oh, my friends! Hands and feet no longer obey. Now, where to rest? When? No longer a stall. No longer a night. The 27th of Tet. Waiting. Sunrise. Sunset… arriving so quickly.
The 29th. The 30th. Another Tet arrives. The final days of the year. Wandering steps. Growing fewer. Worn by time. Will there be a return? To curse a few words. To miss the market again… Oh, my friends! Two streams of tears. Short and long. The 30th of Tet.
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