( Ảnh: Sưu Tầm)
"Mother, will you visit the market again then?"
"Hmm… Take me for a walk around the market, won’t you?"
For a long time, to him, the market had ceased to be just a simple noun describing a place of trade. Even now, whenever he reminisced, or returned each year to count the remaining canopy tops stretched over the stalls, he no longer saw the market as just a location with people who lived and breathed there.
The market.
On summer noons, the scorching heat stirred frustration, curses mingling with the rhythmic swishing of handheld fans.
On autumn rains, sorrow hung in the air, sighs escaping from vendors whose goods remained unsold.
On dawns, hope blossomed, as small wishes for a bustling year-end market were exchanged.
On spring days, spirits soared—women readjusting their hair, wrapping scarves around their heads, lighting a cigarette, calling out lottery numbers in playful voices that echoed across the marketplace of life.
Here, people addressed each other as brother, sister, aunt, uncle, or cousin—through the passing of seasons, from summer’s heat to autumn’s farewell, from winter’s chill to spring’s renewal, they shared their lives with both warmth and occasional grumbles.
The market itself changed mercilessly—scorched by the sun, drenched in rain, only to be covered later by tarpaulins, then swallowed by concrete. But the people—once with jet-black hair, now streaked with silver—remained steadfast. Their love for a familiar stall, a cherished product, never wavered. The curses and sighs persisted, bargaining with time itself, pleading for hope to linger just a little longer.
The stalls, once haphazardly arranged, now lined up in neat rows. No longer did vendors spill into the walkways, jostling for customers during the first or last market sessions.
Once, a country boy walked the aisles, selling red lucky money envelopes, his voice ringing out as he counted stacks of them sold. A country girl sat on a mat, wiping off excess moisture from pickled vegetables, greeting customers with a warm smile—whether they stayed or left, her goods, she assured them, were still fresh. A young man, picking out wilted leaves from his produce, greeted buyers with a cheerful, honest welcome.
Now, the boy no longer roamed the market—his role taken over by younger voices, calling out new deals. The girl had long bid farewell to this place, stepping instead into supermarkets stocked with goods for a bustling Lunar New Year, her welcoming smile lost somewhere along the way. The young man now sat behind glass windows, listening to love songs, reminiscing about the days he sorted through wilted leaves, calling out to customers with genuine warmth.
For a long time, to him, the market had been more than a place of trade.
And now, as he sat reminiscing, or counted the fading footsteps of those who still returned to visit the old marketplace, he saw it as an old, loyal friend—one that had lived fully, never betraying the weary souls who still wandered its aisles.
Sometimes, imagination blurred with memory.
He saw checkered scarves wrapped again, cigarette smoke rising, a few loud curses thrown into the wind of a fading market day.
A pang of affection. Time had not been cruel—it had allowed people to return, to meet their homeland once more.
One day, he asked, "When the time comes, when you return to the earth, Mother…
Will you visit the market again?"
She paused for a moment, smoothing out the fabric of her old áo dài, stacking the pickled vegetables, letting her eyes sweep across the market one last time. Then, she smiled.
"Hmm… Take me for a walk around the market, won’t you?"
