Every butterfly, every flower, every clump of wild grass is a friend of the river and a friend of each other. The river is our friend because the river never runs dry.
By the fire, Mrs. Nhien's eyes were filled with sadness. She looked absentmindedly at the dancing, sublime fire, her heart heavy with longing. Her hair was gray, her face was haggard, but her eyes still sparkled with joy when she thought of her children and grandchildren.
The tripod was very old, covered in black ash. Each piece of dry wood burned slowly, occasionally erupting into a burst of sparks that then mixed with the smoke that floated around the low kitchen roof. She was stewing fish, the lid of the clay pot was opened to let the water dry up, revealing each piece of firm, dark fish meat mixed with fish sauce, spices, and sticky, fatty, and aromatic gac leaves. Next to it was a pan of fried shrimp with star fruit, which had been firmed up, glowing red, mixed with scallion oil, and a few thinly sliced lemon leaves.
When Nham sat with his parents at the dinner table, Mrs. Nhien looked at her son and asked gently: "Is business still going well?". Nham smiled slightly: "It's okay, Mom! But the competition is fierce, you have to be clever." Then he glanced at his father, who was still silent, his expression somewhat more thoughtful than usual. He was both a village teacher and an upright farmer, never teaching his son shortcuts.
He put down his chopsticks and spoke slowly: “What do you mean by clever? Do you have to compete by any means?”. Nham avoided the stern look and replied: “Oh, Dad, everyone is like that these days. If you don’t try to move forward, people will push you down.” After his son’s words, his father put down his chopsticks and frowned: “That’s not a healthy way to live. Especially not the way our family lives.” His words made Nham pause and turn away. Over the years, he had become too accustomed to calculation and the hustle and bustle of urban life and rarely questioned himself. He himself was proud of his necessary flexibility. However, his father’s eyes showed clear disappointment.
It was late at night, Nham lay in the small room, clearly hearing the sound of the river rushing and the wind outside the window. He closed his eyes, imagining each wave hitting his heart, a very different feeling, very vague, stirring. The image of his parents flickered again. Their whole life they had suffered a lot but never once asked for anything or complained. His heart was filled with remorse. He had complained about his poor hometown. Because of poverty, he had to break away and jump into life to find opportunities.
*
People from the countryside who came to the city always stopped by Nham's house. Everyone brought vegetables, clean fish and meat, home-made wine... At first, Nham was happy to welcome them, but as time went on, the feeling of discomfort gradually increased. Many times he blurted out: "Uncle! There's everything up here...". Everyone who heard fell silent. When Mrs. Nhien heard what happened, she called, her voice very sad: "Everyone in the village and the neighborhood, knowing that you're up there, everyone came to visit. It's normal for them to ask for help. They're also very self-respecting, my child!"
Nham listened, feeling a little uneasy, but the feeling of annoyance was still greater. Just the other day, his father's old friend, Mr. Chan, brought half a sack of sweet potatoes and a basket of eggs as a gift. He waited for Nham at the tea shop near the company, and only met him after work. While shaking his hand, he timidly asked: "Nham, I know this is a bit troublesome, but she failed the university entrance exam two years ago. I heard that your company has a lot of work. Can you help me and her?"
Nham smiled awkwardly: “I know, but this is not easy, uncle. Let me take my time and see how it goes…” The old man became more and more confused, his dirty hands swirling his teacup, his head bowed: “Uncle, I know it is difficult… But my family is so poor, I just want a job, anything is fine”. At this point, Nham could not stand it anymore, he blurted out: “If anything is fine, then tell me to stay in the countryside and work as a mechanic, construction worker, porter, whatever. If not, then go to electronics or garment companies… everywhere is hiring.”
In the evening, when he returned home, Nham saw half a bag of potatoes and a basket of eggs in the kitchen, not knowing how Mr. Chan had delivered them. He suddenly remembered the man's eyes gradually darkening. Perhaps, like many people from the countryside, whenever they asked for help, they had to struggle mentally and feel quite humiliated. They were just clinging to a little hope in their son who had risen to success in the city. Nham quietly looked for the phone number and called back. "I will try to find a way, uncle!" Mr. Chan's voice on the other end of the line brightened: "Thank you, uncle! And my aunt grows a lot of vegetables, and is dividing each row into rows waiting for your wife to come back to the countryside. She said your wife's favorite dish was boiled dill." Nham's eyes were slightly moist, and his heart was filled with warmth. Mr. Chan was my father's friend, but the way he addressed him was like a blood relative.
One time, Tu had a distant relative, with bananas, corn, and even a rooster in a cage. Nham was uncomfortable. Before he could sit down, Tu complained: “I’m stuck with the land papers. I heard that your classmates are now all land officials, so I need you to help me out a bit, because my family doesn’t know how to handle it.” Nham sighed, his heart filled with frustration: “I’ve been talking about that since I came back to my hometown. Land papers have to be accurate, it’s not as easy as asking for a cake or a candy.” “That’s why I took the trouble to come here…”, his cousin’s voice gradually faded away. He lowered his head, fiddling with the brim of his pith helmet, saying nothing more.
My hometown, life is different, why is it still like this? He thought to himself, then sighed. Nham felt like he was always tied to a responsibility that was hard to shake off. His heart was filled with an uncertain sadness. Since leaving the countryside for the city, he had been so independent and struggling. He couldn't rely on anyone.
*
Late autumn, early winter, the weather was chilly. After returning from the market with her mother-in-law, Thuy felt heavy-headed, sometimes with goosebumps, sometimes with a fever. Mrs. Nhien looked at her daughter-in-law worriedly, and exclaimed: "You must have caught a cold, let me pick some leaves to help you get better quickly!" As soon as Mrs. Nhien went out, there was a buzz of conversation and questions. A moment later, a few neighbors walked in, holding handfuls of chrysanthemum leaves picked from the fence.
“Come on, Mrs. Nhien, go bury the pot of porridge, let me do it, a cold just needs to be cured with some Chinese marigold leaves.” Thuy lay down, everyone’s affectionate eyes made her feel comfortable and at ease. Someone was gently rolling a handful of roasted Chinese marigold leaves, gradually applying hot oil to Thuy’s back, while treating the cold, gently massaging. “You have to be patient, we use whatever we have in the countryside, but it’s very effective!”
Thuy did not know who was speaking, what kind of relatives called her aunt. Aunt means aunt - niece, or aunt means younger sibling. The sweet scent of chrysanthemums wafted throughout the small room. Someone's voice chuckled, while treating a cold, telling a story: "In the past, whenever someone in the family was sick, the whole neighborhood would gather around. Now, our hometown is still like that. But honestly, is there anyone better at treating a cold than Mrs. Tuc?"
The person mentioned laughed and said, “Oh well! I only know that little trick. My mother-in-law taught me that before, it's not a big deal!”
Thuy gradually fell asleep. Her dreams still vaguely mentioned things about her hometown, the harvest season, and her children's education. She came from a wealthy family, her father was Nham's university professor. Thuy's mother had her own company and always wanted her daughter to take over, but Thuy chose the civil service path, which was her major. Her mother blamed Thuy for being content with her lot. Thuy felt that it was the right choice for her. Someone's voice softly crept into the dream of the city bride: "When you return to the village, you are all family."
*
On the day of the ancestor's death anniversary, when everyone was still busy preparing the offerings, Nham received an unexpected phone call. He frowned, trying to consider everything, but then decided to get in the car and go to the city to handle some work. Nhien and her husband heard the news that their son had decided to leave, their hearts were shocked and heavy. She stood silently in the corner of the water tank, her calloused hands tightly clutching the hem of her shirt. The more silent her mother was, the more guilty Nham felt. He got in the car and then turned back, comforting his mother with a consoling voice: "Go try to settle this quickly and then go home, you still have to pick up Thuy and her children." Although he tried to control himself, when the shiny car gradually disappeared behind the bamboo hedge, Nham's parents still looked in that direction. Thuy clearly felt the sadness in her parents-in-law's eyes, she also felt sad and broken.
Thuy took her children for a walk along the riverbank. In the afternoon light, the gentle river was like a soft silk strip, slowly stretching across the quiet shore. Thuy watched her children run away, their laughter blending with the wind. The peaceful scene was far different from the noisy, bustling city. Every time she returned to her husband's hometown, Thuy always felt her heart calm down. But Nham was often swept away. Over time, they became like two opposite currents, growing further and further apart. But the one who should have felt distant should have been Thuy. Many times, Nham reminded her: "You don't need to go back to your hometown too often! It's a bother if people ask you for help."
Spring has not yet arrived, but the riverbanks are already tinged with spring. The green grass covers the ground, soft and cool under the autumn sun. Tiny wildflowers, mixed with white and purple, carry their fragrance with the cool breeze blowing up from the river. The river in the dry season shows off its smooth, light brown alluvium, evidence of many seasons of rising water, adding to the vastness of the banks.
The two children were busy chasing after flocks of yellow and white butterflies that fluttered, creating bright streaks of color at the foot of the dike, sometimes fluttering in the air, sometimes gathering into brilliant clusters, sometimes scattering like a rain of flowers covering the ground. In the distance, the buffalo herders were gathering dry wood and lighting fires along the riverbank, the smoke mixed with the smell of dry leaves and burning grass...
*
“Mom! Our homeland is so beautiful!” the youngest child exclaimed. “Why do you say the river is our friend, Mom?” the older child asked. Thuy smiled: “Because the river never dries up.” Thuy knelt down beside her, looking into her child’s eyes: “The river nourishes this land, allowing plants to grow, allowing fish and shrimp to swim. Without the river, everything would dry up. We need the river, need our homeland to be complete.”
The mischievous little child touched the fragile butterfly that had just landed on his hand, smiling and asking his mother: “Mom! Are butterflies friends of the river?”. Thuy looked at her child and nodded: “That’s right. Every butterfly, every flower, every clump of wild grass is a friend of the river and friends of each other.” Thuy’s eldest son suddenly became thoughtful: “So mom, does dad think like us? Why don’t we see dad playing at the river? Grandpa and grandma said the river was dad’s entire childhood…”. Thuy gently stroked her son’s hair, her eyes filled with tears.
The mother and her children were silent, watching the peaceful river. The children did not say anything more, but Thuy knew that the seeds of love had sprouted and grown green in their young minds. She stood up, held her children's hands, felt their small hands clasp tightly and her heart also filled with happiness.
Short story by LU MAI