Thế là đã gần hết năm, công việc cứ như con vụ xoay vần. Ai ai cũng thế, vùi đầu vào công việc rồi khi giở tờ lịch lại chắc rẽ hết năm. Nhanh thật. Nó cũng vậy. Cuộc sống nghĩ nhiều lúc cũng lạ thật.
Listening to the Heart, Letting Life Drift By
The sound of a saxophone blends with a piano melody playing on the radio in the silence of midday. Along both sides of the road, rows of rubber trees slope gently, their leaves swaying as if tucking themselves into a noon-day nap. He rolls down the window to breathe in the pungent, salty scent of the earth, followed by the bitter fragrance of fallen leaves turning gold in the sun beneath the trunks. The rustling wind seems to harmonize with the jazz on the station; he lets his body relax, stretching out along the seat. Stretching out along a midday dream.
And just like that, the year is nearly over; work has been spinning like a top. Everyone is the same, burying their heads in tasks only to realize, upon flipping the calendar, that the year is gone. So fast. I am no different. Life, when you think about it, is truly strange.
When we are small, we long for the year to end and for Tết to arrive just to escape school, to smell the scent of new clothes, and to smile with joy receiving lucky money for trips near and far throughout those three days of Spring.
When we grow up, the arrival of Tết at year-end brings a mixture of joy, sorrow, and anxiety, leaving us to secretly regret: why does time fly so fast? And so the current of life flows on, drifting forever. It drifts along with the human fate, until we find ourselves wearily counting how many years of life are left.
I don't know if it is out of place in this atmosphere, but my heart suddenly aches with the memory of a lullaby.
The lullaby that followed me into my afternoon naps long ago. The lullaby of a summer noon when mother was away. A lullaby echoing from a neighbor’s house, submerged in the nostalgia of childhood. It resonated with the wind, leaving behind an eternal refrain. I mused that his nieces and nephews today are not fortunate enough to drift into sleep guided by such lullabies; they merely drowse off into an unconscious slumber through the humming melodies of a young mother. No blame, no resentment, for the hurried pace of life has swept away the lullabies of yesteryear. One only regrets that the lullaby now only whispers on the lips of grandmothers whom life has spared, and one wonders who will go searching for that lullaby tomorrow.
I whispered along to the rhythm of a lullaby as the jazz track ended, rolled up the window, and fell into a deep sleep. A sleep in search of the lullaby from days gone by.
The story of six years has just concluded. Thinking the search for those lyrics was hopeless, he saw a young man post a clip on Facebook of a child singing a broken lullaby, missing several beats. There is a young mother who still cherishes the lullaby. Eternally. I wonders if the lullaby still holds the words and the "outdated" sentiments of today—the numbing sorrow of the old days that feels so heavy when heard now. Life isn't always full of such upheavals that words should carry resentment or mourning into a child's sleep; ironically, what the child remembers is the melody, paying no mind to the sorrow or grievances of the singer.
The story of six years has just concluded. Hearing the child's broken lullaby, there is a "foolish" man still sitting there, mourning the loss of those old refrains. Truly.
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