Color of memories

In the cool afternoons under the veranda, listening to the rustling of leaves on the roof, my father often said that the memory of Uncle Hai would never fade in my grandmother’s heart. At one point I asked her, ‘What color are your memories?’. ‘It’s the color of ripe plums’. Looking up at the plum tree in front of my house for a long time, I still don’t understand why the memory brings such a popular and rural fruit color? She laughed, ‘you’ll understand when you grow up’.

In the cool afternoons under the veranda, listening to the rustling of leaves on the roof, my father often said that the memory of Uncle Hai would never fade in my grandmother’s heart. I once asked her, “What color are your memories?”. “It’s the color of ripe plums.” Looking up at the plum tree in front of my house for a long time, I still don’t understand why the memory brings such a popular and rural fruit color? She smiled, “when you grow up, you will understand”. It was a time when the wind was strong, and the plum tree in front of the house rustled again. On nights like that, Grandma had trouble sleeping. She lay tossing and turning, sometimes sitting up, turning on the canna lamp (chili shaped) in front of the porch. North of a small chair, grandmother sat there and stared blankly at the plum tree in front of the yard. Far away is the river, where the fishing lights go on forever. Where in the past, she rowed a canoe to take him across the river to the base, where Uncle Hai got off the boat to the north to protect the border. And the riverbank in the grandmother’s heart always carries the color of loneliness and pain about a belief that is lying deep somewhere, far away. Grandma used to tell us about the plum tree in her front yard. She said that when she went to the north, Uncle Hai wrote to say that plum tree, in the north called whip tree and in the central part called peach tree. Each place has a different name, but plum is still a fragrant home garden fruit and is associated with the nostalgia of many children far from home. In my memory, my plum tree is tall and wide, covering an entire yard. The plum branches are long, reaching as far as the eaves. A few walks of fallen leaves on the corrugated iron roof, at night the wind pushes the palm branches into rustling sounds. Although I know it’s hard for old people to sleep, when I see my grandmother tossing and turning all night, my father is also worried. He intended to cut the plum branch, so that the night wind would not rustle the roof. Hearing that, grandma didn’t like it. She said, thanks to the wide canopy, the yard is cool from the road to the house. Besides, this branch has been bearing fruit for the past few seasons, and she feels sorry to have cut it down. I know, grandma has another belief. When she stood under the tree, she looked aimlessly at the plums laden with branches, her heart was not willing to cut down any branches full of memories. When I was a child, I could not hold the armor of a tree. I wish I grew up quickly, so that I could wrap my arms around the tree easily. But strangely, when I grew up, there was still no way to hold the armor with one arm. Hearing that, my grandmother patted my head and smiled: “Every day you grow up, the tree grows like you every day.” At that time, I wondered again: “Why does the seedling come like that, does the tree have thoughts too?”. She nodded: “That’s right, trees, like people, also know how to think, also know how to love and give fruit to those who feed it.” I pondered again and asked: “So the tree has parents and grandparents? Who gave birth to the plum tree?” She was silent and did not speak, perhaps she did not know how to answer so that her five-year-old grandson could clearly understand. She patted my head again and said: “You will understand when you grow up!”. I believe, and I firmly believe in her words, that there are things that you don’t understand until you grow up! The times I climbed up the swinging plum tree, looked down at the porch, where my grandmother sat beside a basket of plums and a few fluttering betel leaves, I saw my grandmother storing up a treasure trove of memories of Uncle Hai. At that time, I believed more and more, there are things that when I grow up, I understand clearly. At the age of twenty, I followed my father and grandmother to the border. A few days before the day of the trip, she asked me to go down to the river to draw up a bucket of water, she digs around the soil at the plum tree in front of the house and then sprinkles the water meticulously and carefully. Like a diligent and dedicated gardener. She pulled out all the grass around the tree, leaving only the roots that sprouted from the big, rough roots that sprouted a bit into the ground. I wonder why it has to be the river’s water to water the plants. Why not pull the tap water, water the plants, both fast and convenient. She smiled, her mouth was full of grace: “River water carries heavy silt, nutrients like the milk of the mother river, helping the tree to bear fruit”. Grandma used to go around the plum tree. As she walked, she collected crushed ripe fruit and fallen leaves and gathered them in one place. She lit up the smoke, fragrant plum smoke, fluttering in the afternoon, mixing with the color of her hair. At that time, my heart suddenly fluttered, for the first time in my life, I realized that my grandfather was old. And the time she spent with her children and grandchildren also gradually shortened. A few days later, we went to the border. She said “go pick up Hai”. Sitting on the train, Grandma still couldn’t stop hugging plums. Those are the biggest, tastiest fruits I’ve ever picked. Grandmother has selected to save to bring to the border, “for the uncles”. Along the way, she never stopped talking passionately about her child. She said that in the past, she was pregnant with Uncle Hai until nine months and twenty days before giving birth. The baby was so big, weighing more than four kilograms, she thought she wouldn’t make it. But the child loves his mother, so he tries to pull away. She said, my uncle Hai from a young age loved fruit trees. Grandpa saw that, so he planted dozens of stone plum trees around the house for green fruit. But unfortunately, in the water season of the year of the Dragon, the water soaked for several months, the trees died, there was only one plum tree in front of the house. After the water season that year, Grandfather entered the resistance base before he had time to replant some new plum trees around the house. Uncle Hai was only ten years old, without a father, he taught himself how to take care of the tree and nourish the only remaining plum tree that did not die despite experiencing many floods. That year, the plum tree blossomed with big and delicious fruit, Uncle Hai climbed up and broke almost the whole basket, loaded it into a backpack, and carried it to the base for his father. But who knows, that was also the last time he saw his grandfather. After that time the base was bombed, he turned into clouds and wind, but his grandfather still lived with the breath of the mountains and forests of his homeland, with the plum branches he cultivated. Grandma said, my grandfather lived a holy life, so over the past few decades with so many flood seasons, the plum tree is still green and growing bigger and bigger. Uncle Hai’s plum garden from the mother tree in the front yard is also growing. Peace restored. The plum trees from the fruit of two generations have a chance to pay off. But it was only four years before the border had an enemy. Uncle Hai followed the call of the mountains and rivers, put on a small backpack and a water bottle, and set off. Before leaving, grandma still carried some plums in her hand, hoping that if she missed the road, there would be fruit to her stomach. Before we went to the border to pick up Uncle Hai, the bad season started to sow the wind. Because of the rustling branches of the tree or because the grandmother’s dreams were fluttering, she was always tired every morning. She said that last night, she dreamed that Uncle Hai came back. Uncle carried a backpack filled with stone plums. As she remembers it very well, she hugged Uncle Hai, crying bitterly: “Hai, where are you, my mother looked for me but couldn’t find me”. Uncle Hai said, Grandma affirmed that the voice was exactly the same as the old uncle’s voice, with no difference: “I’m going to plant plums, when the plum season is ripe, I’ll message my mother to pick me up.” After he finished speaking, he left, then the sound of plum branches rustling on the porch. Grandmother woke up in the phobia of the pain of losing her husband and children. She quickly ran to the yard of the house, stopped at the plum tree, looked at the river in front of the house, she called “Hai, Hai, where are you so that my mother can pick me up, Hai!”. After that delirium, my father thought that he must set out to find Uncle Hai. Dad goes from year to year. Every year during the summer vacation, he goes on the road again. Working hard across the border strip, in the end, heaven did not let people down. Dad grabbed a few clues about Uncle Hai, when he stopped at the foothills planted with plums and green fruits. My father reunited with his brother’s teammates. The uncles, the uncles recounted, when he first joined the unit, he boasted to his teammates that he had brought a “delicious” southern plum with him. But there are only a few fruits, how can I divide them equally among the units, so my uncle Hai spent time incubating and planting. Uncle fought while carefully cultivating the roots and watering carefully little by little for the plums that had just sprouted. In the severe cold northern seasons, you have to keep the plants warm so they don’t die. Uncle took care of plums like taking care of his hometown soul. The uncles and uncles said sadly, there was a time when enemy artillery suddenly bombarded the hill, my uncle died in that battle, but the plum trees he planted were still lucky to survive and turn green. My uncle lost his grave, it took several decades for his former comrades to find him, but he did not know where to find his relatives. The comrades laid him down beside the plum trees to overcome the fire, they tried to preserve and take care of the southern plum tree that his comrades had left behind on this land. The land was already slightly human, so the stone plum trees took root on the hills of the North. A few years later, when they produced green fruit, the teammates had the opportunity to return to eat a delicious piece of grass, but sadly missed a teammate. On the day of Uncle Hai’s reburial, in addition to the remains, we also brought back a few kilograms of plums from the tree he planted. Placed in front of Grandfather’s grave and Uncle Hai’s grave, white moon-smoky incense flies aimlessly… Strangely enough, the plums we brought back and the plums from the tree in front of the house were exactly the same, even though the two trees were grown in two different regions. differ in both soil and climate. Grandma sat in front of Uncle Hai’s grave, peeled a piece of stone plum and put it in my hand, her voice was cool and sweet as if it contained the aroma of plants and trees in the garden: “When you are old like her, you will understand. Just like the color of plum, memory is a color that lasts forever!”