A Fragment of Memory

The days that followed were filled with endless questions from friends and teachers about what we had experienced. The story of that miraculous event became the topic of every conversation, and I recounted it countless times. However, as months passed, everything gradually quieted down, like a dream that had come and gone.

Time moved on, yet the memory remained etched in the hearts of my family members. Until one day, after school, my father waved me over as I arrived home. He held something in his hand, seemingly eager to surprise me. Curious, I asked,

"What are you holding, Dad?"

Slowly, he opened his hand to reveal a small amulet wrapped in golden silk and carefully enclosed in a plastic cover. Inside was a Guanyin amulet and a four-leaf clover. My father stammered, his voice filled with tenderness yet hesitation as he spoke:

"This is an amulet I received long ago at a temple, and the four-leaf clover was something I found in a field. I've carried them with me for good fortune and peace. Today, I want to give them to you."

Delighted, I exclaimed, "Thank you, Dad!"

I eagerly took the amulet inside and admired it endlessly. That gift became my treasure, always kept close—whether while sleeping, at school, or anywhere my clothes had pockets. It was incredibly precious to me. Even when my classmates were curious, I only allowed those closest to me to see it. Thanks to the amulet, every day felt brighter and more colorful. Wherever I went, life seemed more beautiful—from the vast fields and lush trees to the small, familiar marketplace.

At Đồi Market, I often encountered Aunt Nhi, who ran a grocery shop. Whenever she saw me, she would wave and call me over, always giving me sweets and snacks with motherly warmth. Then there was Uncle Thương, who owned a souvenir shop. He never missed an opportunity to tease me when I stopped by. I'd heard rumors about a friendly rivalry between him and Aunt Nhi—one sold snacks, and the other sold keepsakes. Despite their playful competition, they maintained a peaceful agreement. Uncle Thương, though mischievous, was kind-hearted. I remember one hot day when he gave me a conical hat as I wandered under the scorching sun. Feeling shy, I tried to pay him, but he just laughed, patted my shoulder, and said,

"Make sure to wear it in the sun to avoid heatstroke, alright?"

With that, he returned to his shop, leaving me with a deep sense of gratitude.

There was also Chi Mi, the youngest vendor at the market, just 12 years old. She sold fruits and flowers at her stall. Coming from a large family, with her father having passed away early, her mother worked tirelessly to provide for them all. She juggled helping at the market and household chores, making schooling a distant dream. Her life experiences had matured her beyond her years. She treated me like her younger brother, and I saw her as my older sister. Whenever my parents scolded me, I'd run to her for solace. She'd listen, smile, and gently offer meaningful advice. I recall one time, after I poured out my complaints, she sighed and said softly,

"Life only happens once, you know. You can have many things in life, but don't let regret be one of them. Go home and apologize to your parents, or you might not have dinner tonight!"

Fearing her warning about missing dinner, I dashed home to apologize immediately. As I ran off, I could hear her playful laughter trailing behind me.

Ah, and the stormy days of our village. It often endured minor floods, which, though not overly damaging, left a lingering sense of unease over every household. I vividly remember the rolling thunder and deafening claps of lightning. Each time, I'd curl up inside the house, too afraid to look outside. My mother, seeing my fear, would gently pat my head and reassure me,

"That's just the thunder and lightning of the heavens. If you do something wrong, you'll be punished, and wicked people will be struck down."

My father would then join us, patiently explaining,

"Giang, remember that the heavens always have eyes, watching everything. So never do wrong. Be good and live righteously, my child."

Afterward, he'd turn off the lights and say,

"Alright, time to sleep."

And just like that, our family would embrace one another, finding peace in the warmth of our love.

But the next morning brought a fateful day. The clear skies were gone, replaced by dark clouds. Leaves scattered, flowers withered, and the water outside rippled uneasily. When I returned home from school, I saw a crowd gathered in front of our house. My mother's heart-wrenching cries echoed through the somber air, mingling with the murmurs and whispers of the neighbors.

As I stepped closer, my heart shattered to see my father lying still, never to wake again.