Vinh - from the 33rd floor

On a weekend day with intermittent rain and sunshine in early winter, I suddenly had the desire to see Vinh from above just because I remembered "Missing Vinh" by poet Tran Quang Quy:

"I said I missed Vinh but you still doubted me.

Vinh took me to the third floor.

Vinh hung me in the vast starry night sky…”

There is a starry night sky…

It was a cold rainy night, friends in Vinh welcomed the poet of “The Chopping Board Dream” to visit Vinh at the coffee corner on the 33rd floor of Muong Thanh Hotel. The moment the poet stood on the high floor, 4 bright glass panels looking down at a sparkling Vinh below, he was stunned by the strange beauty of Vinh, even though he had been to Vinh many times, and had set foot on many lands.

It was a cold rainy day, but he had that feeling, as if he were hanging in a starry sky with thousands of twinkling lights below. Perhaps the joy in his heart, the overflowing emotions, with someone, or with everyone around, or simply with Vinh, at that moment, made his lines of poetry strangely genuine and joyful.

Yes, strangely enough, the scene is still the same, still the same shining lights, but some people see it as a starry sky, others see it as thousands of tearful eyes... That's when I suddenly remembered my friend. During those desolate and desperate days, she also chose a corner to sit under the quiet curtains of this high floor. She also looked through that transparent glass, saw the city slowly lighting up in the night lights. And she said, it seemed like the whole city was crying too. Those lights blurred in her tear-filled eyes. She said, at that moment, she felt like she was sharing.

She looked toward the distant rows of houses. She guessed that in a certain window, her little daughter was waiting for her mother to come home. Even though she was sitting coloring in a drawing book, she still listened to her mother's footsteps as she walked down the long corridor of the apartment building. She would run out, as fast as the wind, and shout with startled joy: Mom, you're home, I've been waiting for you forever. She would open the back door of the corridor a little, letting in a wave of March xoan scent. The scent of xoan was even stronger after the drizzle. She would softly say to herself: How lucky, right in the middle of the busiest, most modern neighborhood, there was still a xoan tree from the countryside. And xoan flowers, regardless of the changes in the hearts of the people from the countryside who went to the city, still kept their small shape, still kept their pale white-purple color, still gave off their thousand-year-old scent.

Just thinking about that familiar warmth, just thinking about the bewildered black eyes waiting for her by a lit window among the thousands of lit windows below, my friend suddenly felt relieved. Forgetting all the bitterness and betrayal, she told herself to return to what she deserved, to return to live for the people she loved.

A messy drawing

I went up to the 33rd floor to try to look at Vinh like that, with the joyful eyes of a poet and with the desperate eyes of my friend. To see that everyone has a reason. Humans, after all, live by their own emotions and feelings. And, me too, I am not them. I am looking at the street with the calm, slow eyes of an observer. Of a person who has gone from being a stranger to being familiar with this street. Of a person who has gone through the hustle and bustle of life, who has known how to meditate with contemplation and reflection.

I saw the city below as a messy painting with countless colors. Blue, red, gray, brown, yellow, white... I saw the outline of that painting, on one side were the distant mountain ranges, and on the other side was the winding silk strip of Lam River. I saw the far sea, Cua Lo like a fairy tale city suddenly appearing in the mist. I saw Quang Trung road connecting Le Loi, Mai Hac De down there as a straight line. I saw Vinh citadel moat sparkling after the pristine new constructions. I saw the early winter clusters of trees starting to darken green and turn yellow. I saw a couple of coconut trees almost as tall as a 5-storey building of an old Quang Trung B apartment building. I saw the young green vegetable sprouts on the white foam boxes that Quang Trung apartment residents planted on the roofs, along with countless water tanks scattered about. I saw a bit of golden sunlight rushing down on a corner of the city, making the high-rise buildings suddenly radiant like a source of excitement.

I saw people and vehicles moving on the street with a bustling rhythm as if it were always like that. Never stopping. People, diligently going about their lives, no one happy or sad, successful or unsuccessful… How many people are carrying joy, how many people are burdened with sadness? How many people are walking on the street, there are just as many feelings flowing, intertwined like that, to make up this life, and to make up the soul of the street.

I sat through the afternoon waiting for the moment the city lights up, ignoring the hustle and bustle below. Surely many people were picking up their children, finishing the market, finishing work, cooking, gathering. The sound of car horns urging. Calling each other. Angry voices. And the lights had begun to turn on as darkness gradually fell. Each light illuminated a room. Each light illuminated a mood. Each light also had a destiny.

It is a warm lamp with the chirping of laughter around the dinner table. It is a gentle lamp on the pages of a writer's slow-reading book. It is a lamp shining lonely light under the head of a dreamy man who has let slip away from his hands the woman he loves. It is a dim lamp that beckons, promises in coffee shops. It is a lamp that shines with an authoritative, proud light on high-rise buildings and large businesses...

Lost in the city

I once wrote about the street lamp. The lamp that haunted my entire childhood - a child from the countryside, standing from the village, from the dark night to look at the city appearing in the distance with its radiant halos. I kept dreaming, that side was prosperous, that side had only fragrance and joy. I believe that there must be many people like me. And that is why they stayed on the street. Maybe there will come a time when you, like me, feel tired of the cycle of making a living, the cycle of the streets, the car horns and dust... and feel silly for the old dreams. But isn't that right, every time I feel sad on the street, I feel like I am being comforted. Comfort from the faces of people passing by. Comfort from the indifferent, uncaring people passing by. And seeing the changes every day, the frivolous changes of the street makes us feel like we have faith that, who knows, tomorrow will be different...

My Vinh Street, I once told a friend from far away, is one that you can never get lost in. Because my city is very small. Because in Vinh there are almost no dead-end streets. The streets are always connected to each other, like hands holding hands. Yet, my friend just told a story that he lost someone for 17 years in the street. They were each other’s first love, then, for some reason, maybe youthful anger, vague pride pushed them apart. For 17 years, they never met again, even though they were in the same city, and when they met again, both of their hairs were already gray. The regrets, sorrows, pain, and struggles… were only expressed by a belated handshake.

Looking from the 33rd floor, Vinh street is really small, it seems to be held in your arms, but there are people who love each other so much, but still let a period of their youth be lost from each other. When people get lost, it is not the street's fault, the street is still small, the roads are always connected. It is only when people do not want it, when people do not want it to be connected.

But what can we do, life is like that, it sometimes pushes people to take lost steps on familiar streets. To let people experience misfortune, sadness or joy, surprise. Anyway, I hope that, in this small city of mine, of yours, no one will lose each other like that. Life is as limited as the boundary of the street, it stops at the edge of the mountain, the silk strip of Lam river, so let the joy of reunion, meeting happily in our hearts, like the concluding line of the poem "Remembering Vinh" by poet Tran Quang Quy: "Do you think Vinh has anchored us?".