The hometown alley is full of memories…

The hometown alley is full of memories…

1. One goes away, one stays

Many years ago, during a trip to write an article about the mother of martyr Nguyen Thi Tuyet in Nghi Phuong, Nghi Loc, I was haunted by the image of a mother with a hunched back and dim eyes sitting next to a betel trellis looking out over a small alley. That year, Tuyet's mother was about to turn 90. For more than 40 years, she still kept that habit, waiting for her son to leave for war but he never returned. 40 years, long enough for the black-haired woman to become a gray-haired old woman. Long enough for the bomb craters in her homeland to turn green with fields and grass. But that did not diminish the belief in the mother's heart that her son would return from the alley. She imagined how he would put down his backpack, smile brightly and hug her so tightly. She imagined how she would cry on her son's broad chest.

My daughter-in-law told me that there were nights, especially rainy nights, when my mother would get up, leave her bed, and go out to the alley. My mother said, what if Danh (my son) came home and I couldn’t get up in time to open the door, and he got wet? Then every afternoon, my mother would whisper to me by the betel vine. The betel leaves trembled in my hands. My mother believed that was the betel vine that Danh had planted before he went to the battlefield, planted for my mother to chew on, and promised me that when he returned victorious, he would marry me a bride. Those betel leaves would be fragrant on the lips of both families… I had a thought in my chest, that if it weren’t for that burning belief, Mother Tuyet wouldn’t have had the strength to live to this day. And when we said goodbye to my mother, as usual, my mother’s slow steps led me out to the alley. My mother stood silently in the purple afternoon shade, not far from here was the Phuong Tich river with its many war wounds covering its murmuring waves. Mom pointed to her feet, right in this small alley, Danh's first steps in life took place here. And then the day she sent him off, Mom also stood here, smoking and watching his waving hand...

Poet Vuong Cuong (younger brother of poet Thach Quy) - a person who has lived away from home for more than half of his life, but he said that his soul is in his hometown Dong Bich. The hometown where every alley is imbued with the love of the countryside, the taste of the countryside. In his dream of being away from home, he always imagined himself walking in the small alley. The alley is winding with bamboo and banana shade. Behind is the countryside, in front are fields. On the tree branches, the red-breasted bulbuls, the white-banded wagtails, the warblers are busy catching worms all day long. The clouds hover over Quy mountain. That small alley, where the village girls who marry far away and the boys who marry outside the village often stop here, as a farewell and a greeting to the people and land of the village to become citizens of the village. When the villagers return to their grandparents and ancestors, they also pass by here. The procession of mourners often stops and the sad sound of drums resounds as a farewell.

2. As the title of the long story goes…

Each lane has its own shape, its own mark. Whenever I set foot in a village, I always pay attention to the lanes. The lanes with many bamboo trees in the flooded village of Hung Loi (Hung Nguyen). The lanes with rows of areca nuts in Thanh Lien, Thanh Tien (Thanh Chuong). The lanes closed with bamboo drying nets in Dien Bich (Dien Chau). The salty lanes in the salt and fish villages of Quynh Phuong (Quynh Luu), Dien Van (Dien Chau). The lanes with the strong aroma of rice paper and peanut candy in Vinh Duc, the smell of stove smoke in Tru Son (Do Luong). The narrow lanes with slanted brick pavements. The long concrete lanes. The lanes with curved leaf arches. The bustling or quiet footsteps coming and going. The lanes in the countryside, seem to open, but also seem to close. It is a small river that flows into the big river that is the village road out there, and from the village road it goes out to the provincial road, the national road. Countryside alley – the first place that opens up roads, horizons. And also the country alley, closing a bustling and bustling day, closing a gate, sometimes only made of bamboo, woven reed to return, gather around a house, with so many joys and sorrows, ups and downs, suffering, happiness…

Going out to the countryside, you can see the village road. Going out to the countryside, you can bathe in the south wind, watch the moon, and enjoy the scent of areca and grapefruit. The countryside alley is full of flowers. These are the xoan flowers, grapefruit flowers in March, these red hibiscus flowers burning like the joy of new clothes, the fragile white xuyến chi flowers. The dew drops form a string of pearls sparkling in seven rainbow colors when the early morning sun rises above the grass clumps. These are the beautiful hedges, the chrysanthemums with pink silk strings that seem to want to entangle our childhood. These are the green-leafed duoi bushes with tiny, ripe, yellow fruits... The alley is lit by fireflies flying at night, the thin wings of dragonflies, the fluttering wings of butterflies, the humming of bees. One cannot help but think of Nguyen Binh, in every poem about the countryside, one can vaguely see somewhere the romantic countryside alley, deep within: There are alleys with very low fences, just a glance and you know "the neighbors' lights are on", to say: "Waiting for you to eat a piece of rich food, you will come over / We both live in the same village, sharing the same alley, why rush, my dear?" There is an alley "Her house is next to mine / Separated by a fence of green Malabar spinach", the alley where the rowing troupe of Dang village passed by in the drizzling rain of January and February, making any village girl dreamily remember the promise?

Countryside alley, who created the country alley so talentedly? Like a small pause before entering the yard, or porch. Like an introduction in a long story about houses, people's fates. As if to contain so much nostalgia, memories. Where the country people take their first steps in life. Where they go far away. Where they say goodbye, where they meet. Where they yearn for…

3. Growing up in a rural area

I too, grew up in a country lane, carrying so many haunting memories of the country lane, and then when living in the city, for many years I still couldn’t forget a small way back. I wrote in my clumsy childhood poem that the country lane was “the first threshold I stepped into life”. There, I still hear the creaking of the bamboo groves my grandfather planted, the bamboo-leaf boats floating under my inner shirt. The red hibiscus flowers. A green window opened wide to welcome the early morning sun. My grandmother’s lullaby, the wandering Kieu girls, the My Chau with the injustice of goose feathers. When I was learning to walk, my father pounded bricks and mortar into small pieces and spread them on the ground so that I wouldn’t slip or trip in the rain. Somewhere, there are my footprints waiting for my mother to come home in the afternoons. There were also times when I shed tears of resentment when my mother scolded me. I always welcomed her figure returning from the market in the lane with the excitement of rice paper and sesame candy. The place where my grandmother heard the bird calling for water and sighed that the flood season was coming. It was also the place where she heard the bird calling and guessed that my father was working far away and was about to return home. The place where my friends called me to go to school every day. The place where my grandmother called out to me on afternoon walks, and the gentle sound of her broom sweeping leaves echoed every foggy afternoon.

It is my beloved village alley, the magical cries of my childhood. Who wants ice cream, who wants candy, the longer they pull… The feathers of ducks and chickens, the broken sandals with broken straps make a ruckus in the alley, exchanging for so many innocent childhood joys. The round marbles, the passing sticks, the games of chess, hide and seek… still seem to be glorious in the mind of that village child. There, there is a fairy tale still lying there, waiting for me to come back, even though it has been a long time since I believed in fairy tales, but this grown-up child knows that no matter how far away I am, I will forever belong to my hometown.

Also in this country lane, how can I forget the eyes of my first love on a sunny afternoon in January. The time of youth with so many surprises "a glance can turn into love". Only the sun made my cheeks red.

Also on this country lane, how could I forget the day I saw my grandmother off in May, the sun was blazing hot on the marigold hedge. The bright sun made my eyes sting and fill with tears.

The country lane is like that, its length can be measured by footsteps, but how can one measure the length of longing, the length of the countryside. It is a milestone from the first steps of each person, to the happy wedding day, and then to the day of death… Silently witnessing the sadness, the joy, the changes of rain and sunshine.

Silently witnessing the feelings of mothers in my hometown, seeing off their husbands and children, only to wait endlessly for years, waiting from youth through the time of white hair, the wasp waist to a hunchback, to stand with a cane against the village lane again. Mothers turn the “strange into familiar” and then “the familiar becomes strange”.

That is the place where laughter and tears seep into the land and soul of the village the most. Oh my hometown lane!

Thuy Vinh

Ha Giang - Ngoc Quy - Thuy Vinh