My father was a good man his whole life.
He had an older brother. Back then, my father was young but very healthy, and he was also very good at his studies. Unfortunately, the family suddenly faced a hardship, and my father became the sole laborer.
Originally, it was my eldest uncle who was supposed to work the fields. I don't know what my uncle said to him, but my father decisively shouldered the family's burden and carried it for his entire life.
My mother felt for him, but he would always laugh it off and say:
"We're blood brothers; helping out is the right thing to do."
My mother would scold him but could never bring herself to stay angry at him for long. As soon as my father coaxed her a little, she would be appeased.
In those years, very few people went out to work as hired laborers. My father relied on his own strength to work the family's fields and even took on a few more plots of land on the hill. During the harvest season, whenever a family in the village was short-handed, he would go and work for them to earn a little extra money.
That father of mine was always smiling, as if no hardship was too great for him to bear. Because of overexertion in his youth, my father's health declined.
After my eldest uncle passed his exams and went to the city, my father would always bring vegetables and grain up to him. But after a few trips, my father stopped going. The smile on his lips also faded, replaced by a quiet weariness.
After his health deteriorated, my father did odd jobs around the town and neighboring villages. He began to grow silent, only showing a hint of a smile when he was with my mother.
At that time, I was too young to understand why my father suddenly became so quiet, or why the cheerful, warm atmosphere in our home became silent and stifling.
My mother was my maternal grandparents' only daughter, and she was also an educated woman. She was different from the other women in the village, distinguished by her short hair cut to her ears and her neat, clean clothes. Originally, she would even wear floral dresses in the summer that my grandmother had sewn, but after a few snide remarks from the village elders, my mother stopped wearing them.
In my childhood memories, my mother was a warm, beautiful, and strong person. My father treated her incredibly well; he couldn't bear the thought of letting those fair hands, accustomed to holding a pen, do farm work.
Unfortunately, that beautiful and modest woman eventually passed away. After that, my father's health grew worse and worse.
After returning, I would often go to my parents' grave to sit, bringing along some wine and a few snacks. I wonder if my father was sad and regretful that the brother he had helped his entire life had cast him aside like a worn-out shoe when he fell on hard times.
Perhaps I feel sad for my father.
When my father passed away, my eldest uncle's family also left. The house, the land in front and behind it, and the few barren plots of land on the mountain all belonged to me. The soil in those plots was mostly good, but it was a pity that with no one to cultivate them, they had long been abandoned.
The people in the village said nothing. I went to till the soil myself and planted a few things. I don't know if it was in my nature, but I was single-mindedly focused on growing more and more food. My philosophy was that as long as one's stomach was full, there was nothing else to worry about.
The farm tools were still in the house, but there was no harrowing machine. I decided to clean the house inside and out. Whatever was missing, I would wait until I went to pick up my grandfather to buy it all at once.
The wood-fired kitchen in the house was quite sturdy. It hadn't been used in a long time, but boiling one pot of water was still enough for me to take a long bath, so there was no need to install a solar water heater. The wood stove was still usable, but the pots and pans were not in great shape. I also needed to buy more daily necessities and various spices. Although my village had roads, it was remote after all, so people tended to maintain the habit of stocking up on things.
Thanks to the experience of farming with my father since I was young, this life was familiar to me, not the least bit strange. After several days of being busy inside and out, the old house finally looked like a home again. Busy all day, soaking my feet in a basin of hot water, my muscles ached a little, but my spirit was very much at ease.
It had been a long time since I'd had a period like this, focused on doing one thing without any distractions.
Lying there quietly, I could hear insects chirping outside the window. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the quiet night as the worries and frustrations hidden in my heart gradually subsided.
I borrowed the old pickup truck from Uncle Ba's family in the village and mentally listed the things I needed to buy. As soon as I drove to the village entrance, the neighbors gathered around, most of them elderly people and women. It was hard to refuse their requests for help. Even for someone like me, who wasn't used to interacting with outsiders, I couldn't bring myself to say no. The things they asked me to buy for them were mostly daily consumables like spices, nothing major, so I agreed to all of them.
My grandfather's house was right above a grocery store. The shop owner was a woman in her forties. My grandfather and her family had been neighbors for decades and often helped each other out.
I checked the expiration dates and bought half a cardboard box of various spices all at once.
The shop owner looked at me curiously:
"Phuong, what are you buying so much for? Aren't you afraid it'll go bad? This is enough to last you for half a year."
I loaded another box and mumbled in response:
"The road is long, and it's not convenient to travel. Besides, the folks in the village also asked me to buy some things for them."
I hurriedly paid and carried the boxes to the truck, then went to pick up my grandfather.