The old woman from the same street

Short story

(Baonghean)When Tính's family had a baby, I gained a new friend from the same neighborhood. It was the old lady, Tính's mother, who came to help her daughter-in-law who was recovering from childbirth. On her first day, she greeted everyone around, including my family. As she left, she humbly said, "My grandchildren are still young; I hope you'll guide them." I laughed, "Young and talented, ma'am." She laughed back, "Wisdom doesn't come with youth!" and turned away.

Every day, the old woman would bring her clothes and diapers to my yard to dry. Looking at the garden with its lush green vegetables, and the corner she'd fenced off for chickens, she'd always exclaim with delight. She used the chickens to entertain her grandchild whenever she fed him or taught him to talk. She'd put leftover rice, shrimp and fish heads... into a plastic bag and give it to the chickens. Eventually, whenever they saw her familiar figure, the chickens would rush towards her. While feeding them, she'd murmur and talk to them, as if they were people. When the bird flu spread, the authorities banned poultry farming in the city, so I had to get rid of the flock. The old woman stood bewildered in front of the empty coop, her voice filled with sadness and regret: "Every morning, hearing the chickens crow helped ease my homesickness, you know."

When my grandchild started kindergarten, my grandmother had more free time and came to my house more often. Hearing her complain about not being able to weed all day, I encouraged her, saying that she'd spent her whole life working from dawn till dusk, and now was the time for her to enjoy her old age and not worry. She still felt guilty, saying that now that she was old and weak, she couldn't do anything and had to rely on her children, which made her very sad. Her husband lived with his eldest son in the countryside, and she came here to live with her youngest son. They couldn't live together to take care of each other in their twilight years because they didn't want to burden their children. "Just think, with all the expenses, and all the illnesses, making one child carry both of us old people would be too hard on them," she said, then sat silently, her eyes sadly gazing into the distance.

She must miss him terribly. Proof of this is that in her everyday conversations, she often refers to him as "my old man." She talks so much that I can picture him vividly, even though I've never met him. He was a man who often suffered from sore throats but loved going out in the cold; he had lost almost all his teeth but craved burnt rice. He loved braised snails with bananas and carp soup with dill, both cooked by her; if someone else cooked them, he'd know immediately! He had two bad habits: he drank a lot of alcohol and refused to take medicine when he was sick. Back in the countryside, she used to hide alcohol in the house to discourage him from drinking, but he always found it. When he was sick, with a glass of water in one hand and medicine in the other, she would sit beside him, pleading with him to take his medicine like a child. Between stories about him, she would suddenly express her worries. "I heard on the radio that it's very cold here; I wonder if my old man is being careful." "What harm is there in someone who drinks a lot, miss?"… In the days leading up to Tet (Lunar New Year), seeing people bustling about, she paced back and forth, looking so anxious and pitiful. I told her to occasionally ask Tinh to buy a ticket to go back to the countryside to visit his grandfather. She honestly said she really wanted to, but traveling would be expensive for her children and would add to their worries, so she couldn't bring herself to do it. Besides, she had once expressed her desire to go back to the countryside, but her youngest son dismissed it: "Why go back and suffer!?" She felt very hurt but remained silent.

In my neighborhood, a long-standing tradition of morning walks has formed. Around four-thirty or five o'clock, elderly couples gradually wake up, put on their shoes, and stroll along tree-lined streets in the cool, gentle air. Those who are strong enough walk briskly, chatting breathlessly; those with failing eyesight and slow steps lean on each other's shoulders, taking one step at a time. Amidst this scene is the image of an old woman from the same neighborhood, trudging alone along the rustling, leaf-strewn path. My heart aches, wondering if, far away, he remembers her, alone in this place.

I noticed that whenever she talked about "my old husband," her voice suddenly became lively and affectionate. Sometimes, the joy in her eyes made her seem younger. However, she never forgot to add a loose remark: "Just joking with you, okay? Don't tell Tính and his wife." I questioned, "What's wrong with telling them?" "They wouldn't understand, they might think I'm getting senile and nostalgic." Seeing my bewildered expression, the old woman confided that once, when she was sad, Tính said, "Missing your husband?" Then the two of them giggled; she knew her son was joking, but she wasn't happy. Moreover, the mother became even more secretive and closed off to her children, who were both close and distant.

Whenever her son went on business trips and her daughter-in-law and grandchildren visited her parents, the old woman would invite me to sleep over, to protect me from the cold night air. I felt uneasy watching her sit at the table with a few shriveled braised fish and a plate of boiled vegetables. For breakfast, she'd hastily eat a potato, a cassava root, or a plain loaf of bread. As if guessing my question, she explained that before leaving, her children gave her money and told her to buy whatever she liked, not to be stingy. But she ate sparingly, saving money so that when she returned to her hometown, she could have some treats for her grandchildren, so that she'd at least have something to show for herself. When talking about her grandchildren, she knew each one's personality and preferences by heart. She felt most sorry for her eldest son's youngest daughter, who was grown up but still immature. At fifteen, the girl's laughter and speech were dull and she couldn't even take care of herself. When she lived nearby, the old woman often bathed her; now that she was gone and her mother was busy all day, the girl would probably be covered in scabies. After saying this, she sat silently, her eyes welling up with tears. She planned to buy her a really pretty dress when she returned home. She gave a pained smile: "She's crazy, but she still likes to dress nicely, you know."

Coincidentally, the old woman once asked me which bus company was the most convenient for her trip back to the North. I recommended several companies that offered excellent service, even giving her their phone numbers and instructions on how to call them. Little did I know she was secretly preparing for her own trip back to her hometown, after many unsuccessful attempts to get her son's approval. On the day she left, Tinh and his wife were both away. Returning home after her sightseeing trip, I heard that before her return, the old woman had visited all her relatives in the neighborhood and written a few words for her son. The street was still bustling and noisy, but with only one person missing, I felt a profound sense of loss.

When Tính got home and didn't find his mother, he confronted his wife: "What did you do to make Mom leave?" His wife, upset, ran to my house, sobbing. I went over and found Tính moaning, "Mom, why don't you want happiness instead of suffering!?" I said sadly, "So you don't understand your mother at all!" Tính looked bewildered. I told them, "Do you know that she loves your father, misses her grandchildren, misses her hometown, but doesn't want to bother you, so she's been suppressing her feelings for so many years?" I recounted to the young couple the deep, private feelings that his mother had shared with them.
Both of them widened their eyes, as if they were listening to someone else's story, not their mother's.

Nguyen Trong Hoat