Thứ Bảy, 18 tháng 9, 2010

My childhood

... was Mother, maternal Grandparents and cousin Xoai.

Mother would leave me at Grandpa's care for 6 days a week, under the tiny root of a tiny hamlet in 12 Thuy Khue st., until she picked me up in Saturday to enjoy my weekends with papa, mama and my little sister.

Grandpa and Grandma would have me eat at least 2 bows of rice each meal, and prepare a cup of hot milk for me when I returned from school, and walk to school with me each day, and scold me when I was stubborn and senseless, and hold me and pacify me when I cried, and encourage me warmly to study harder, and let me sleep between them, so warm and comforting. Grandma would make delicious sweetened porridge while Grandpa, Xoai and me discussed about matters of sciences and the mysterious world. Grandpa was never tired out of our childish and curious wonders: he was like a know-it-all, a real philosopher, a philanthropist, a Saint of Knowledge and Goodness in our heart. And he still is.

Xoai would yell at me following after him in his secret scientific experiments. He mumbled to himself a lot, and though grumbling, he still answered all of my foolish questions, though sometimes it was just "You'll know when you grow up" (this did not satisfy me in the least, but I understood that I was bugging him, so I just observe him quietly, curiously and eagerly with no more question)

Time went by, went by, as quietly and mysteriously as the curious little girl and the discerning little boy a.k.a the future Harvarder grew up in the arms of their haven't-yet-grown-old Grandparents...

... was the nights when I wept at the sound of Mama and Papa quarrels.
When he opened the door with such an angry and scary sound, the little me was awoken.
He raised his voice and asked mama for a discussion with a curt request.
And mama would say: "Let the children sleep"
And they leave, I would certainly quietly cry my heart out with emptiness filled my soul, until a day I learned to wipe away my tears and tried to drown myself in the realm of dreams, where papa was kind, strong and humorous, where mama was caring, gentle and mischievous.

... was the days...
When I was a strange little girl, understanding some truths of the world yet could not perceive things children should, like how to gain love from teachers, how to get high marks, how to appear cute and beautiful.
When I quietly watched the sky and teach myself about dreams and freedom.
When my soul didn't differ even the slightest to mine now.

... was gone...

Thứ Hai, 2 tháng 8, 2010

For Hanoi

Hanoi.
My city. The city that had wide opened its arms to greet me coming to the world, gave me my childhood, the city that has made me grow up as a Hanoi girl.
For eternity, Hanoi in me can only be the city “in river”, the noble and simple, proud and bright city of Flying Dragon.

Hanoi may be busy, chaotic and frowzy for now. Yet I have never seen an unattractive Hanoi.
I see the pure and gentle sunshine sparkles in the smoke from the vehicles of the busy and crowded streets of the city.
I see the old streets together with the old houses calmly face with the ludicrous new buildings threatening to ruin the ancient atmosphere of Thang Long.
I see the beautiful inside the ugly of Hanoi. Is it because I’m so in love with Hanoi, so that I can only see a dreamily beautiful and glamorous Hanoi?

I like the warm, gentle and fresh morning of Hanoi, when the sunshine is so soft and sweet, and the breeze is just so light that it can only gently blows my hair.
I like the sunny summer noon and afternoon, when I slowly ride my bike through the cool small back streets, away from the exhausting heat outside.
I love the night of Hanoi.
With the sweet and deep fragrance of the milk wood pine flowers.
With the white dracontomelum flowers that twinkle under the moonlight.
With the wind carrying the whisper of the Red River into the quiet nights of Hanoi.

I ride in the streets, let my soul soaring in the deep blue sky of Hanoi, feel my heart just as light and fluffy as the white cloud flying freely and watching over the city from above.

The city has a high school, where the trees abandon their leaves as May comes. I always think that it is a miniature of Hanoi. The essence of the city can be found in the West Lake wind, flies somewhere in the school yard, in each of the walls, the classes and in each of the leaves.

I may well be a tiny dust, wandering with the breeze of the city. Someday, I will take my time to fly high… Yet, Hanoi will always be the same old Hanoi, the ordinary and simple, humble and cordial city of mine.

And, no matter how many changes it may undergo, I will always belong here, as Hanoi will always and can only be Hanoi, forever and on…