It was a couple of months after my brother’s 4th birthday when I was born. He became the big brother with “the responsibilities”. The very first one was to pick a name for me. He picked out a cute girl at his nursery school, gave me a similar name and hoped that I would become as cute. Well, that was the hope.
I grew up being his sister. I ate the food he cooked. I read the books he rent. I listened to all sorts of stories he liked to tell. He always likes telling stories. When we were little, there were a lot of power cuts in summer evenings. I would sit in the dark scratching away mosquito bites and listening to every single word of his stories. He tells them in paper now for a living. There are books. There are scripts. There are movies named him as scriptwriter. I sometimes lose track of his stories. Being faraway is more a distraction than some mosquito bites in hot damp summer evenings I guess.
It is his birthday today. I wish I were having food with him rather than typing this blog. I could have caught up with his stories.
Em lạc vào chốn xa vắng không anh
Câu thơ vụng dại lỗi vần lạc tiếng
Gầu tình yêu tuột rơi nơi đáy giếng
Biết lấy gì vớt cho được ánh trăng
Posted in Poems
Anh đã cùng em qua bao mùa gió
Hạ oi nồng gió rát đường xa
Thu bồng bềnh bài ca của gió
Đông đem gió về tay vội vã tìm tay
Ai sẽ cùng em qua mùa này gió bão
Khi gió đông gào hú suốt đêm đông
Khi ngược chiều gió thổi mưa dông
Khi cô đơn nỗi nhớ nổi gió lòng?
I was in Bute Park of Cardiff one crisp morning late October when I saw a blonde girl in a bright red dress. She was walking bare feet holding a pair of silver high heels. Her skin was pale. Her hair was tangled. She might have done the walk of shame after a night-out, but she was pretty. Somehow her colours both blended in and stood out in her surrounds. Above her was puffy white cloud. Beneath her were layers and layers of yellow leaves. Sky was blue. River water was aqua. Leaf colour was abundant: green of life, red of fire, yellow of nostalgia. A variety of the subtlety. Sunlight danced through morning dew to create absolute colour richness. A luxurious treat for eyes.
I did though wonder how it felt like when her bare feet touched the wet leaves on that crisp autumn morning. She must have been cold. Her feet must have been sore. She did not look like she was in any hurry to leave the park for some warmer place where she could rest her feet. I was glad that she took her time. I knew that as soon as she got out of my sight, my perfect autumn painting would start to dismantle. Her colours would be missing. More and more leaves would fall off. Branches would be left bare fighting their way against frosty wind. Colours would fade off into greyness. Autumn would be defeated. Its beauty of fragility would be gone. I can still take pictures. I can still write poems. But for such autumn beauty, I might have to wait for a while. I guess I as well will.
Posted in Europe
Tagged autumn, Cardiff