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. And 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 said a person who had just turned thirty was old, but sometimes he felt that he had changed a lot. The motorbike headlights 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 immediately. He was still on his way, this wasn't his destination yet. The car turned away, the red taillights fading away 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, with her face covered in powder, sat silently, 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, it seemed like 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, from 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 house 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 a normal thing, 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 reverberated 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.
"Go by motorbike, 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 5:50, the wind blew coolly against his face. The strap of his helmet, after trying to fasten it for a while but not being released, fluttered, banging loudly 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 came 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, 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, 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 just vague calls. No one was here, many of his neighbors had passed away for years, some had followed their children to different places that he only found out 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 sky was so heavy and stuffy up there, he was alone in the middle of nowhere, or there was something else 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 it seemed impossible to hide it. His small neighborhood was now much different from before. The newly built houses stood silently behind the high iron gates, looking majestic. The sidewalks and playgrounds of the children were smaller and paved with new tiles. But the shapes of the houses, the street corners, the tree roots still echoed in him, images that fit into the hazy, jumbled memories. The sky gradually brightened.
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 heartless to this place? Or was he afraid, afraid of the feeling of returning, the feeling that he suddenly became 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, but now they could no longer be together. Could he stay, look at each other, meet again?
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 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 left step was slippery with moss. When he was young, he had often tripped and fallen while playing. The window frame in the attic protruded, 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 yard, playing, looking into his eyes, bewildered. He wanted to reach deep inside the iron 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 thick blankets of the past few 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 drainpipe next to the house. Every time it rained heavily, the water rushed down and eroded into 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 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 looks up at the sky, the rain is still heavy. He has to go, the bus is about to start. He smiles. On this earth, on the roads waiting for him ahead, the rain will never stop. But now, he knows there is a porch waiting for him there, protecting and supporting him for the rest of his life...
And he dreamed of his shadow walking in the rain.
Bui Phu Chau (Hanoi)
