Under the porch
(Baonghean) -The bus arrived at the station at four in the morning. The station was quiet, the city was still fast asleep. At six in the morning, he had to catch the next bus, continuing his journey, spending more time on the bus than meeting on the ground. So he had exactly two hours left in this place. He asked himself, was two hours of waiting long or short? He didn't know, when waiting, time always seemed so long, when meeting and looking back, it suddenly seemed like it wasn't worth much. What about waiting without ever meeting, he believed that everyone alive was still waiting for something, invisible, not easy to name.
The sky was still dark, the row of small shops were dimly awake all night. In this light, everything seemed to have become old. A small corrugated iron roof protruded, a lamp hung down from the yellow ceiling, even the red and green cans of drinks on the table seemed to have faded in color, the lines appeared like in a black and white photo. The simple things he saw every day in the weak light before dawn had aged a lot or he had begun to age. No one would say that a person who had just turned thirty was old, but sometimes he felt that he had changed a lot. The headlights of a motorbike shone on where he stood, rumbling with deep and deep sounds, pulling him out of his chasing thoughts.
No! He refused. He wasn't going anywhere. He would wait here for a while, then leave right away. He was still on his way, this wasn't his destination yet. The car turned away, the red taillights fading in the vast deserted parking lot. The motorbike taxi driver stopped at the gate of the bus station, parked the motorbike on the sidewalk, and got out to help his wife clean up the goods. His wife sat silently with her face plastered with powder, while the motorbike taxi driver mumbled something indistinct. The two of them didn't look at each other, only their hands quickly arranging the bowls, water bottles, and plastic chairs in their long-preserved positions. He looked at his watch, thinking he had been standing alone for a long time, but it had only been more than fifteen minutes.
Suddenly, he remembered another figure. The same salesgirl, all those years of his childhood, the salesgirl at the front of his house seemed to have not changed at all. Even the steam rising longingly from the basket of sticky rice that day still occasionally appeared in his vague dreams. Later, when he grew up and his family gradually became full; one time he decided to eat to his heart's content that time he secretly craved. But after that time he realized that when those desires were completely satisfied, the magic would be somewhat reduced. Or maybe, at that time, he had grown up, but the childhood in his mind was always tinged with glory. Perhaps in reality, what he had eaten up until now had always been just something ordinary, for poor workers to fill their stomachs every morning.
Illustration - Nam Phong
The stream of thoughts kept taking him away, calling up in him unexpected things that resounded and then disappeared. He felt something stirring in his heart, something quiet but intense. Was it because he was standing on this land? His footsteps seemed to unconsciously walk to the bus station gate, what did he want, just go, now he didn't know anymore.
"Get on the bike, uncle. Get on and I'll show you the way." He shook the motorbike taxi driver who was bowing his head, resting his forehead on the helmet he was holding. At five o'clock, the wind blew coolly against his face. The strap of the helmet, after trying to fasten it for a while but not being released, fluttered, banging against his helmet. He was much more awake.
The talented people all leave their hometowns and go far away. The motorbike taxi driver concluded that after the boy said he had come from far away, explaining why he spoke with a different accent but still knew the way. Then he illustrated another example of a child of an acquaintance or relative, extremely talented, who was now in a very far away land. The boy listened but didn't think, didn't pay attention. The road still pointed in a familiar direction but what he tried to absorb on both sides of the road was much different from before. The motorbike taxi driver's story just went against the wind. He told the boy why he didn't go when he asked him earlier, his family was still sleeping at this time, it was more convenient to take a motorbike taxi, when he got home he knocked on the door. The boy smiled silently, the old man saw that and didn't say anything more.
Who else did he have in this city? The day his family moved away, all his ties to this place were vague calls. No relatives were here, many of his neighbors had passed away for years, some had followed their children to places he only found out about later. His small neighborhood had become someone else's. So why did he suddenly come back here, it was past five, he was sitting and waiting for the bus to leave. He didn't know, the heavy sky above was so stuffy, he was alone standing in the middle of nowhere or there was something deep inside him that he couldn't name. He told the bus to stop at the beginning of the street so he could walk in.
He tried to keep his mind blank and indifferent, but he couldn’t seem to hide it. His small neighborhood was now much different from before. The newly built houses stood silently behind the tall iron gates, looking majestic. The sidewalks and playgrounds of the children were smaller and paved with new bricks. But the shapes of the houses, the street corners, and the roots of the trees still echoed in him, images that fit into the hazy, jumbled memories. The sky was gradually getting brighter.
He slowed down. Some people said he was heartless and indifferent. Once he left, he left all the way, never to return. Was he really like that? Was he really that heartless towards this place? Or was he afraid, afraid of the feeling of returning, the feeling that he had suddenly become a stranger, standing outside the life he had once been close to. How could he bear that feeling? He was a fugitive, living a different life. He was like someone who had loved someone, and now they could no longer be together, could they stay, look at each other, meet?
And is that the reason why he chose to stand here at this moment? His familiar footsteps brought him back to his old house. The house was still there, the new owner had made some repairs but did not demolish it. The heavy iron gate was quietly locked. He did not touch the gate, trying to look into the yard. Through the long horizontal and vertical iron bars, his childhood vaguely appeared there. Every childhood house hides a magical treasure that every innocent soul always hopes to find. Even though it can never be found, the treasure is always there, shining silently.
He remembered the steps on the left were slippery with moss. When he was young, he had often tripped and fallen while playing. The window frame in the attic was still protruding, and his friends still called out to each other. The marks he had drawn on the wall had been painted away and were no longer visible; only the beating from his father was still clearly remembered. Memories chased each other back, and he seemed to see another boy standing in front of the house playing, looking into his eyes, bewildered. He wanted to reach deep inside the bars. But it seemed like there was some vague gate that had closed, separating him from the magical world inside? He sat down, turned around, leaned his back against one side of the gate, and stared. When had it started to rain?
The downpour poured down, tearing away the dust of the past days. He sat and watched the raindrops outside fall, breaking into thousands of tiny drops that floated in the wind like mist. He still remembered the drain pipe next to the house. Every time it rained heavily, the water rushed down and eroded a small hole. The water washed away the sand and dirt, and cleaned the round pebbles. After the rain, he often sat and admired them like sparkling pearls in the sun.
Under the porch, every moment is so precious to him. He often thinks a lot about waiting, only now does he understand what he is longing for. How happy it is that in the midst of a wandering life, there is still a place silently hiding miracles for us, a place that always waits for us to return. Everything will have to change, this house and him too, only a peaceful space in his soul that always looks towards this place will remain intact. He looked up at the sky, the rain was still heavy. He had to go, the bus was about to start. He smiled. On this ground, on the roads waiting for him ahead, the rain would never stop. But now, he knew that there was a porch waiting for him there, protecting and supporting him throughout his life...
And he dreamed of his shadow walking in the rain.
Bui Phu Chau (Hanoi)
