The drizzle always reminds me of the feeling of the last days of the year. In the bitter cold, my hands were swollen from frostbite, but my mother was still barefoot in the dry, cracked rice field, with bare stubble cutting into her feet until they bled. It was so sad to think about!
The rain kept getting thicker and thicker, covering the streets, on tall buildings, under the trees... (Illustration photo from the Internet).
The rain continued, steadily dripping down from the old awning of a small coffee shop at the end of a familiar street. I saw that the awning had been eroded into small grooves as if to tell the story of time, as if to prove that: everything will eventually become nothingness, become nostalgia, become memories...
Perhaps only the soul remains, love remains, sadness and happiness will follow each other to exist.
... The rain just kept getting thicker and thicker, covering the streets, on the tall buildings, under the trees, then blending into the flow of people rushing back and forth like a white mist covering, the rain made the sparrows in the nest lazy, making them not want to jump around and chirp like usual. Perhaps they were warming their children, warming their husbands and wives with the sadness of a winter rain!
I remember when I was at home, every time the sky sprinkled a few drops of rain that didn't soak my clothes on the small village like this in the purple cold of the end of the year, my mother used to call it a drizzle. The drizzle would gradually condense into drops on the leaves, the drizzle would gather on the roof tiles and wait for each other to gather, dripping like the slow drops of coffee at this moment. The drizzle carried the scent of a vague sobbing, mixed with a touch of loneliness... I can't describe that feeling, it was so specific when I was six or seven years old, but now that sadness grows, clearly in me every time I'm absorbed in the journey of youth and suddenly stop and startle when I encounter a drizzle in the middle of the winter street.
The drizzle always reminds me of the feeling of the last days of the year. In the bitter cold, my hands were swollen from frostbite, but my mother was still barefoot in the dry, cracked rice field, with bare stubble cutting into her feet until they bled. It was so sad to think about!
Emotions like a source slowly dripped down my skinny fingers, I immersed myself in the winter cold... (Illustration photo from the Internet).
The street is now also drizzling, perhaps that is why it has made each of these letters diligently appear under the keyboard of the laptop no longer fresh. Emotions are like a source of water, slowly dripping down my skinny fingers, I am immersed in the winter cold. That cold combined with the drizzling rain makes everything rush back, it is the desolate sadness of a person far from home, embracing so many dreams of a faraway land, suddenly encountering a vast and numbing late afternoon of the year. The city is so vast, vast like the hair of a lonely woman over thirty in her own nostalgia.
I miss it so much, I miss that feeling of the last afternoon of the year, how many times I stood in front of the yard waiting for my mother's footsteps to come home, her hair covered with rain, the rain like dust particles making more strands turn gray, the rain like dust particles hurting the small alley of my childhood. Sometimes I know the past has passed and cannot be retrieved, but sometimes I just invite myself to drift back to that memory to see that my soul still has a place to lean on. I suddenly feel rich, I feel that I have gone through peaceful memories like that, and the origin will be here forever, where the fluttering heart still resides and exists.
The sadness that mother gives me is so peaceful that I dare not touch it deeply for fear that I will cry, for fear of feeling guilty towards a fragile, nostalgic drizzle... (Photo: Quang Ngai Newspaper).
My grandmother's house was only one field away from mine. The only way back then between my village and Lac Chinh was a small, winding dirt road. My mother didn't know how to ride a bicycle, so that small road was the shortest shortcut for her to return to her hometown. There were times when I ran all the way to Cong bridge at the village entrance, standing in the drizzle waiting for my mother to come back. My mother's thin figure blended into the increasingly dense rain. Before my eyes was a vast, vague white color of the fields that had begun to fall, of the small road connecting the two distant hometowns, of the gloomy and hidden Van Chi roof. My mother's figure was as distant as a small dot looming in the distance. I dared to try on new shirts and beautiful pants on the afternoon of the thirtieth. The poverty in my mother's house was so peaceful, the sadness she gave me was so peaceful that I didn't dare to touch it deeply for fear of crying, for fear of feeling guilty towards a fragile, nostalgic drizzle...
Across the street, a street vendor in a protective suit was still diligently carrying a basket of fruit, oranges, guavas, grapefruits... It seemed late at night, but the basket was still full.
The street is bustling with vehicles, with familiar and strange faces mixed in the rain, the rain like dust particles pouring into my eyes on a late afternoon in the city.
Le Nhi
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