Huu Thinh

Waiting

I would return to the place called "Eighteen hamlets of Betel Gardens"-
so many gardens so many summers-
she waits, her face toward the night.
Twenty years she longed for the sky to darken early;
twenty years, meals gone cold.

The New Year should not come again and make my sister sad;
no one should congratulate her on one more year of life.
My sister is no longer young, but out of love and respect,
the villagers call her miss;
out of love the villagers won't show their children off before her.
Twenty years. When my sister climbs on a boat loaded down with
passengers,
she fears being drowned while still in her beautiful years.
She is known for her faithfulness;
He is still alive;
He shields the lamp to keep it from going out.
Twenty years, she wears a heavy brocade dress at night,
full of life and waiting,, though my brother is unaware.
She is not like the snake who sheds old skin under the tree's shadow.
But without him, she is the always the odd relative at the festival.
In the midst of the family's laughter, she is lonely.
In the cold night,
her one hand warms the other.
She hears gun fire from the distant militia post.
At meals she eats alone.
No matter where she sits, the scene appears out of balance.
She hides her youth beneath her dimpled cheeks.
She misses him, longs for him;
She is sad as the flamboyant flower torn in two.
He is with those who will never return;
he has heard, and the plants and grass have heard,
how the leaves love him. They volunteer to camouflage him,
though they will never make him as cool as she, under her shade,
though they will never make him as warm as she, under her hair.

As alive and light as this day, as grass in the dry season,
Her breath winds its way all through his life.
His bandana should be a sail.
His bandana of a time of tears.
One day it will wave in front of the veranda, a flag of happiness flying in the wind,
but tonight she is sad,
the ring loose around her withered finger.

Dear sister,
with the burden of twenty years of waiting,
you count his footsteps heading home,
the night so black, the roosters crow must be strong to break through.
Is it possible you still carry the bamboo walking-stick?
Is it possible I am only the river
that must bitterly turn before Binh Loi Bridge?
The whole company can't withdraw into the jungle at once.
Standing in the midst of so much suffering,
we can't look at the gathered stacks of guns
like extra bowls or chopsticks,
the excess so large, we who still live
don't dare to say we are the lucky ones.
During Tet Mau Than there were many plans.
She still believed in the storybook endings of Kieu then,
believed Mail flowers that bloom twice are lovers with second chances,
believed the green autumn would arrive to answer the moor hens' laments in June,
believed one day she would pick fruit for him
when the paddy rice blossomed...

The rice is blossoming.
He is returning.
The small piece of cloth tonight is the voice of the red-tailed treepie/
He will recognize his own bright star.
Where are you this last night of waiting?
Night of the Thi,
Dawn of the legendary Tam.