Memories of a River

I still remember... From where I am standing now to that spot over there was only a short walk—the little narrow river of my childhood once flowed there. And yet, within its modest banks lay an entire world of beautiful memories, a dreamlike piece of my childhood that I could never forget.

The river curved gently through the lush green bamboo groves, winding its way between two rows of thatched houses that stood along opposite banks.

Now I am grown. The moment I returned from the city, a strange wave of emotion rose within me. My heart ached with a quiet, inexplicable sadness when I suddenly realized that the river of my childhood had disappeared, leaving behind nothing but rolling mounds of sand.

Some parts of the old riverbed had been leveled to make room for houses. Other places had been swallowed by trees and tangled with wild, unruly grass. My hometown had changed with the passing of time, swept along by the modernization of the country.

And yet, my love for my homeland—and for that little river of long ago—had never changed, even as the landscape around me slowly faded into something almost unrecognizable.

Now I stand here, gazing at the changing face of my hometown, at the desolate remains of the river stretching before my eyes. Somewhere nearby, the chirping of crickets rises from the bushes, mingling with the fresh, earthy fragrance of young grass pushing its way into the light.

Those familiar sensations awaken something deep inside me.

And then, little by little, the memory of a river begins to return...

At that lonely river of long ago, countless little adventures unfolded during the earliest years of my life.

Back then, my hometown was poor, and most people made their living by fishing. The fields along both banks were only temporary patches of farmland, for the soil beneath them was little more than stones and gravel. Life was hard, sometimes painfully so, yet the people remained deeply attached to their work—and to the river that sustained them.

We children were no exception.

On hot summer afternoons, the river offered us a world of pure delight. Once we had finished taking the buffalo out to graze, we would all go rushing into the water with a great splash, swimming and playing to our hearts' content. We would tumble and splash in the cool water until we were soaked from head to toe, so absorbed in our games that we sometimes forgot all about the buffalo left grazing on the bank.

And before long, the animals would have eaten their way through nearly half a field of tender young rice.

By the time we got home, we knew exactly what awaited us—a proper beating.

And then there were those dusky evenings, when the sky slowly darkened and the fishing boats on the river came alive. How lively the scene was as the fishermen cast their nets!

The river simply flowed on, indifferent to the weather—whether beneath the blazing sun, the pouring rain, or the raging storms. To me, it seemed almost carefree, as though it had nothing in the world to worry about.

Sometimes I wished my parents could be like that too, free from the endless burdens of life, without having to spend every waking moment worrying about food, clothing, and the money needed to keep us going.

But I knew that was nothing more than a distant dream, drifting quietly away into some hazy realm of fantasy. Life was simply like that. Who could escape the endless struggle through seasons of rain and scorching sun, through years of wind, frost, and hardship?

One night, I wandered alone along the riverbank, surrounded by the bitter cold and profound silence of the darkness.

Above me, moonlight spilled softly across the surface of the river. The reflection of the moon shimmered and broke apart whenever fish rose to the surface, their sudden splashes sending ripples dancing across the water.

A deep loneliness settled over me as I watched the fishermen from our village working through the night.

Small boats drifted quietly across the dark water, each carrying a flickering oil lamp that hung beneath its little canopy. The rhythmic clatter of the fishermen's paddles and poles drove the fish toward the waiting nets. Then, whenever a large catch was hauled aboard, their excited shouts rang out across the river.

Night after night, year after year, the same scene repeated itself—the fishermen working until they were exhausted, simply so there would be enough fish for the morning market.

And all the while, the river continued to flow silently and gently, giving us fish and shrimp, giving the fishermen in our village the food and livelihood we depended on.

Outwardly, it was nothing but an unfeeling stretch of water, forever making its way toward the East Sea.

That night, I lay back on a small ferryboat moored beside the bank, surrendering myself to the profound stillness of my homeland and the gentle murmur of the flowing water.

Then, from somewhere beneath the boat, the sudden splash of a fish broke the silence and startled me awake.

The next morning, as usual, Hùng, Ti, a few other neighborhood boys, and I made our way to school aboard the little ferry that carried us downstream.

The boat drifted lazily along, quietly parting the water as it went.