Swinging hammock swaying

1. Aunt Pham lives in Dinh village for his whole life. I do not knit with jute yarn or fabric but with a crust taken from the high forest, deep mountain pass, absorb the wind. The uncle went to the mountain to bring back piles of rice husks in the front yard, the aunt brought them so that they were softened in the river wharf, picked them up to dry, then dried them in the sun. I used the foot to soften the pedal and then according to the fiber, split into large, round, firm, unbroken stretches, with a red color like a bunch of troops, like the color of alluvium every year from upstream to bring back the coastal shores. river…

In the early morning, my aunt sat in front of the yard, her arms fluttering in front of a pile of long, cleverly intertwined threads, thread overlapping the other, strata lay in sagging eyes. Every 4 sag eyes form a square. Then she chooses the firm ropes that are braided into a sturdy hammock. The second head is hammock, the aunt is braided into a small hole, so that when lying down, people are hooked on the female pillar, or hang on the trusses, horizontal beams, vertical beams on the tile roof. Two twins around her mother chirped and laughed. Sometimes they played around and kicked the scattered pillars. Aunty’s mouth screamed not to break, but her hands were still moving along with each sagging eye. I knit for a whole week to get a beautiful hammock, a few months a month, but it doesn’t cost much to sell, so I just have to work to make a profit. Now see, I knit hammock my whole life, I can’t get rich. The hammock, like a part of my aunt’s art, carries in it hope, expectation, and passion for the job, as if wanting to hold back a little bit of gold from a distant past. The hammock is knitted with a cool, sweat-free lying on the hot back. When I was lying in the hammock, I had a habit of turning it over, covering my back, my knees on the sides, and giggling on my back; sometimes take the momentum, swing very hard, bring me up close to the roof of the house. Howling soul. 2. In the afternoon, my mother hangs her hammock outside the summer gable, catches the wind blowing in from the river wharf, and lulls her into a baby’s sleep: Newly sewn silk clothes box / Yesterday (but ) I just wore this meal (then oh) / I lost it / Because mom (but) made a wide-sleeved shirt / I forgot (but) pressed the button (oh yeah) the wind blew (pray) down the bridge / Ah oh oh mya oh … Oh my dear, my mother sings on the background of the sky, the sun surrounded the field, the green, the curves of the Dinh River are smooth and smooth, flowing through the lives of grandparents, parents, through childhood. my own quiet but sad. The lyrics of the chants sounded fragrant with the aroma of rice, baked sesame rice paper, the scent of straw root scorched far away, the rich coconut water in the beef cake, the fish sauce that pounded with a little chili garlic to eat raw With the young mother, listening to the flock of birds calling her flock when tired to fly to the deep forest to find a place to sleep, like the sound of drums urging soldiers of the ages to go to battle, like the sound of a pestle pounding hard against each mortar to pound nem chua … 3. In modern times, the house is cast in reinforced concrete, where there are no beds, columns, rafters, longitudinal beams, horizontal beams on the tiled roof to hook the two ends of the hammock and then lie down to sleep. People bought Duy Loi stacking hammocks, which were neatly placed close to the ground. Naughty children are also not afraid of falling to the ground or throwing eraser up to the roof of the house in giggles. Aunt Pham poured debts, leaving the village to go missing and not returning. Everywhere, my aunt’s family led me to live on a plateau with immense red soil, and to earn a living to get out of poverty. My 2 daughters must now be holding their hands in their arms. The craft of knitting hammocks in Vinh Phu village has also disappeared ever since. No one wants to do it because of the effort spent too much but the profit is not much. The hammock she bought from my aunt in the past is now lying in the corner. No longer red, but please be dull, silver, termites are full of patchy mites. Hand touching, seeming a little bit of warmth from any year, the smell of perspiration is still on each thread. This afternoon, I suddenly wanted to lie in a hammock, then heard someone singing a sweet voice. Mum passed away, no one would sing to listen even if she listened. Nguyen Huu Tai