Youth City

When did this street come into being that the row of crabs is bigger than a person's arm, shading all year round? The green tamarind road across the river must have been blooming yellow flowers and bearing fruit for decades, attracting the eyes of students? The ancient, silent Temple of Literature has been frozen in time for many years on the mossy roof of the library?... Questions to listen to yourself for new and joyful things rather than needing someone to answer in detail.

Oil in the city

He remembered the corner of the park, under the yellow sycamore trees, there was a newspaper stand that opened early every day. From the attic, in the early morning, he could run around the riverbank to buy new newspapers with the scent of ink. Books and newspapers were his precious friends from his youth until now. In the mornings before work, he only wandered around a few familiar places in the city. He still remembered the coffee corner with the trellis of tiny purple flowers behind the newspaper building. The young owner often smiled but rarely chatted, even just a few sentences. Perhaps this small shop was the place that connected him and his peers for a long time. There, many stories about his youth journey, of the green-shirt generation, were nurtured and awakened by emotions. He meticulously and carefully wrote them into pages of literature for the provincial newspaper, cherishing his work and daily life. This generous city had silently tolerated, protected, and encouraged him on his journey to adulthood. He loved the city. That love grew without knowing when - deep, simple, and long over the days.

He remembered the suburban neighborhood on the other side of the market where he had rented for many years. From the narrow door, he could see the dirt road by the river, bamboo and many kinds of trees growing naturally, not as strict as on this side of the city. In the rainy season, tamarinds dropped clusters of young fruit hidden in the canopy of tiny green leaves. Looking up at the tree canopy, he remembered the sour fish soup cooked with young tamarinds, mint, and thick-leafed perilla cut from the countryside garden. It was strange to crave it, and it sounded rustic. Below the market wharf, dozens of boats were packed tightly together, jostling for every square meter of water surface. They were floating houses with many generations living together, making a living with the city's rivers and waters. It seemed like every boat was the same, in front and behind, pots of chili, onions, coriander, and cilantro were mixed in. Boats and canoes went back and forth, the old banyan tree tried to stretch out far but was always pulled back by the ropes that were dropped towards the water, far from the big, bobbing waves of the market wharf.

Sometimes the trees in the street become the names of shops. The ca ca ca cafe has a wooden floor and a few bamboo tables set out on the eroded river, shady under the sound of people searching for food on the branches of ripe red fruit. The broken rice restaurant under the fig tree only opens in the morning. The smell of meat and broth is fragrant. The old lady has been selling here since she was middle-aged. Before the river eroded, when the fig tree was as low as the thatched roof of the porch. The porridge restaurant under the banyan tree has small chairs and low tables, but in the cool afternoon, workers gather to talk, laugh, and chat. They share a plate of food, a glass of wine, and chat together to relieve the fatigue after a hard day's work.

He loved the rows of trees that were green all year round, quietly chatting with many kindred souls, deep in thought. Last season, the rows of trees grew full after each change of leaves. The row of oil trees on that new central street was over twenty years old, stretching their strong branches higher than the roofs of the street-front houses. The row of star apples across the street grew more slowly after growing seasons. In the summer, they blossomed together, dropping fruit that spun around in the busy traffic. Once, looking up at the rustling fall in the first rain of the season, he suddenly came up with a rhyme with the flowers:

Stars, oil appointment fall together

Knowing that we are destined to be reborn together?...

The street also has other rows of funny green trees. On the other side of the intersection is a row of shaggy, short royal poinciana trees. They are old but because they are crowded under construction, they are regularly trimmed. At first glance, they look like giant, strange bonsai works. Royal poinciana trees remind us that they do not just silently give people green. Once a year, they light up with summer colors, evoking the aspirations of students. There are roads where the trees seem to change leaves all year round. There are many acacia trees in this city. They grow quickly, not caring about flowers and fruits. Birds chirp and make friends on the lush canopy of leaves. Living close together, the tree trunks tilt and are confusing. The street has many roads that are also poetic according to the seasons with trees and leaves, with rivers and lakes. Purple-flowered Lagerstroemia, yellow-flowered Queen, green-leafed willow, multi-colored oleander...

The city also has its own lotus paths in the heart of the city. The understanding of the government and the meticulousness of the daily caretakers have revived the soul of the countryside on many streets. A land that has not yet overcome difficulties but is still sweet with its honest, generous beauty and strong desire to rise. Lotuses happily bloom in the morning sun, giving passersby a friendly look, soothing their daily worries. Lotuses bloom at noon, facing the sun, spreading their petals freely, evoking a strong and full vitality. Lotuses peacefully close the afternoon with the chirping of brown sparrows in the city. The lotuses of the city have gone far away. The image of the homeland evokes nostalgia, remembrance, and cherishes the desire to rise for children far from home.

The street is also a familiar, peaceful place to return to, like the place where he lives. Small alleys, small streets - full of suburban wind and the sound of birds wrapped in leaves. Here and there, the street steps always have green squares for leaves, lotus, and water lilies to mingle. They remind the city dwellers of their hometowns, reminding the country people that after a while in the city, they long to return to their neighbors and gardens. He realizes that there are small, narrow street spaces that are powerful enough to spread spiritual values deep and wide, regardless of the time that never stops.

Looking back, he had been a city dweller for more than three decades. The season of changing leaves for trees, the years changing the color of… hair. In the gray hair of life, he thought, the city had generously given him many things. Knowledge from the lecture hall was like seeds that had sprouted on this alluvial land. For him, the journey to adulthood sometimes had random luck, but he believed in his own efforts, harmony, and favorable conditions. His mind was bright and his heart was light, so his steps on the journey were peaceful and serene. The gains and losses also left little room for regret and jealousy. It seemed that he still kept his leisurely pace like when he was a child in the countryside, wading through canals and rowing boats to school. He knew how to pick up the pleasant things on the road to forget the times when his bare feet accidentally stepped on sharp thorns on the country road. There were inherent childish traits in him. There were shortcomings of the countryside, and gradually the city had helped him wash them away and change them. Just enough, not completely clean so that he became someone else.

For him, a part of happiness in life is expressing many words of gratitude. He is deeply grateful to the city, the land, and the people of this place in his journey to rise up to live and work usefully. The youth in each person will always be fresh, full of energy and vitality every time we recall it with a precious and loving mind. Looking to the future, even if the city changes its name, even if the familiar places become memories, his love and belief will still be fresh and complete like the verses of poet Huu Nhan:

Do you love Cao Lanh much?

I love Cao Lanh like a river full of water…

June 2025.

Nguyen Pham Dinh Thao

Source: https://baodongthap.vn/van-hoa/thanh-xuan-pho-132290.aspx