The bustling sound of the street at night

At two o'clock in the morning, the street was fast asleep. Darkness had enveloped the houses, leaving only the lights outside their doors. In the silence, I heard the sound of cart wheels.

The sound came from the wheels, occasionally hitting a rock, making the cart's body rattle. It echoed from the beginning of the alley to the front gate, then stopped for a moment.

Looking over from the porch, a figure bent down to pick up a bag of trash. The cleaning lady was hidden in the darkness, working seriously under the halo of street lights. Her shifts always started when everyone was asleep.

The nature of our work made my sister and I “sleep partners”. Friends who only saw each other through a gate and never saw each other clearly. One face was hidden behind the window, the other face was hidden under a mask and hood, leaving only the eyes visible.

Occasionally, we would pass by the gate and chat for a while. Some trivial things. “Why are you late today?”. “This styrofoam box can’t be dumped, you need to tear it into pieces and put it in a bag.” As the days and months passed, two people struggling to survive in the city suddenly realized that they weren’t so lonely. We tried to find a place to anchor ourselves, clinging to the city for food and clothing, for concerns, and sometimes, even for devotion.

She started her career at 18, a beautiful age for a girl to know how to dress up and be graceful. But her clothes are always reflective, with a hood and a tight mask. “My mother passed it down to me, I have loved this profession since I was little,” she said when talking about the reason for her choice.

She loved to see the clean streets lined with green trees. The devotion in her voice, which was no longer youthful, moved me. Suddenly a song popped into my head, “Everyone chooses the easy work, who will do the hard work?”

Looking at her, I thought of myself, of the lives of migrants from all over the world. Lost and lonely. After each day of hard work, waiting for the sound of the garbage trucks every night, as a way to feel the rhythm of the street. The rhythm is not hurried in the middle of the traffic jam like in the morning, but slow and quiet so as not to wake anyone. The rhythm proves the uninterrupted life of the streets. A life that always flows persistently to nurture other lives that intertwine and exist. Like me and her.

There were nights of heavy rain, thunder interrupted by the sound of garbage trucks. She was soaked in her raincoat, wading through the flooded streets. I intended to invite her to a cup of hot tea, but only caught a glimpse of her back behind the shimmering lights. She walked quickly, straight through the rain. The first time I opened the gate, I still couldn’t see her face clearly behind the mask. A person who lived by giving silently.

She pushed the small garbage cart, hiding deep in every nook and cranny. The sound of the garbage cart echoed in the silence, making the street suddenly seem a bit more spacious. I seemed to hear in the sound of labor in the middle of the night, the never-ending beat of the street.

According to Truc Nguyen ( Quang Nam Newspaper)

Source: https://baophutho.vn/lao-xao-tieng-pho-ve-dem-225164.htm