Traces of home began with the rough red basalt road, sprinting along the green paddy field, crossing over the gray cement bridge before finally ended up in the clamorous sounds of a late afternoon countryside market. Among those was the deafening yell of the bus boy:
"Loc Giang. Loc Giang. Who alights here?"
Home.
"It's here."
"It's real."
My heart beat frantically at the thought. After three long years, I was finally home again.
Hauling my luggage off the old bus, I stepped down on to the red soil and hurried into the crowded market. The country wind blew into my face, covering me with the warm red dust like a giant welcoming hug. Passing over the savory food stalls and the verdant fruit shops, my eyes searched earnestly for the grocery store hidden beneath the large almond tree. Inside, two old and tiny figures scurried back and forth, trying to attend to all the impatient customers. I held my breath, struggling to swallow waves of emotion that kept rushing to my head, and uttered the words I'd been so long to speak:
"Mom, Dad, I'm home"
The elderly figures stopped and looked around, recognizing their wayfaring son at the steps. Moment of silence followed by surprise filled the glassy eyes before joy broke into warm streams and rolled down the thin cheeks. September wind absentmindedly scattered the dusty soil into the air, reddening the misty eyes with immense happiness.
We closed the store early that afternoon and headed home near the Vam Co's bank. I walked alongside my parents on the rough red basalt road, loved, peaceful, and nostalgic. Three years. Time had cast a spell on this idle village. Rows of tiny eucalypti had grown taller, casting giant shadows over both sides of the road. The once crumbling primary school had been renovated. People had come and people had gone. Only the road remained the same. Muddy come rain and dusty come shine, like the blood veins nurtured my soul, it had always been there, eternally red. On this road, I fell down. On this road, I stood up. On this road, I took my first steps, and went on to learn my first lesson at the school by the Vam Co. On this road, I spent hours playing childhood games, often spending some more hiding from my parents' wraths. On this road, I learnt to be a Vietnamese, marching proudly as a national serviceman. On this road, I waved goodbye to my family and embarked on a long journey on new and foreign streets. On this road, I lived.
Yet often I forgot about it. From the modern boulevards of Singapore to the impoverished alleys in Manila's slums, from the crowded streets of Bangkok to the deserted trails of Mount Kinabalu, distant attractions had hypnotized the wanderlust in me. I kept postponing the returning date, using my rare vacation days instead to explore the exciting lands and their fascinating streets. As I matured with the worldly experiences, memory of the red basalt road seemed to be buried under layers of the scattering dust, thickening with each place that I went to.
Just as I often forgot about my parents. Three years had grayed their once dark hair, wrinkled their once smooth skin, and weakened their once strong wrists. I had selfishly lived through my adventures, oblivious to the burden of old age that kept getting closer to my living, breathing red roads. Those that had always been nurtured me, loved me, and supported me.
After six years, I had completed my national service, lived on my own in a foreign land, travelled South East Asia, met the strangest of friends, and learnt through countless of mistakes. At 24, my dream was clear and my mind was set.
September sun set hastily in the village. Under the fleeting light, I walked alongside my parents on the rough red basalt road, loved, peaceful and resolute.
I knew who I was and who I would become
"Loc Giang. Loc Giang. Who alights here?"
Home.
"It's here."
"It's real."
My heart beat frantically at the thought. After three long years, I was finally home again.
Hauling my luggage off the old bus, I stepped down on to the red soil and hurried into the crowded market. The country wind blew into my face, covering me with the warm red dust like a giant welcoming hug. Passing over the savory food stalls and the verdant fruit shops, my eyes searched earnestly for the grocery store hidden beneath the large almond tree. Inside, two old and tiny figures scurried back and forth, trying to attend to all the impatient customers. I held my breath, struggling to swallow waves of emotion that kept rushing to my head, and uttered the words I'd been so long to speak:
"Mom, Dad, I'm home"
The elderly figures stopped and looked around, recognizing their wayfaring son at the steps. Moment of silence followed by surprise filled the glassy eyes before joy broke into warm streams and rolled down the thin cheeks. September wind absentmindedly scattered the dusty soil into the air, reddening the misty eyes with immense happiness.
We closed the store early that afternoon and headed home near the Vam Co's bank. I walked alongside my parents on the rough red basalt road, loved, peaceful, and nostalgic. Three years. Time had cast a spell on this idle village. Rows of tiny eucalypti had grown taller, casting giant shadows over both sides of the road. The once crumbling primary school had been renovated. People had come and people had gone. Only the road remained the same. Muddy come rain and dusty come shine, like the blood veins nurtured my soul, it had always been there, eternally red. On this road, I fell down. On this road, I stood up. On this road, I took my first steps, and went on to learn my first lesson at the school by the Vam Co. On this road, I spent hours playing childhood games, often spending some more hiding from my parents' wraths. On this road, I learnt to be a Vietnamese, marching proudly as a national serviceman. On this road, I waved goodbye to my family and embarked on a long journey on new and foreign streets. On this road, I lived.
Yet often I forgot about it. From the modern boulevards of Singapore to the impoverished alleys in Manila's slums, from the crowded streets of Bangkok to the deserted trails of Mount Kinabalu, distant attractions had hypnotized the wanderlust in me. I kept postponing the returning date, using my rare vacation days instead to explore the exciting lands and their fascinating streets. As I matured with the worldly experiences, memory of the red basalt road seemed to be buried under layers of the scattering dust, thickening with each place that I went to.
Just as I often forgot about my parents. Three years had grayed their once dark hair, wrinkled their once smooth skin, and weakened their once strong wrists. I had selfishly lived through my adventures, oblivious to the burden of old age that kept getting closer to my living, breathing red roads. Those that had always been nurtured me, loved me, and supported me.
After six years, I had completed my national service, lived on my own in a foreign land, travelled South East Asia, met the strangest of friends, and learnt through countless of mistakes. At 24, my dream was clear and my mind was set.
September sun set hastily in the village. Under the fleeting light, I walked alongside my parents on the rough red basalt road, loved, peaceful and resolute.
I knew who I was and who I would become
