One Sunday Back Home: A Bamboo Broom and the Gate in the Afternoon

Sunday. Heavy cloud but no rain. I came to the countryside on Saturday evening and slept in my old room, in a bed still a little shorter than my legs.

5:40 The sound of a bamboo broom sweeping the yard wakes me before the alarm can. Swish, swish, steady as breathing. I lie listening, eyes still shut, not touching my phone. Strangely I am not restless. Maybe the bed is so familiar it says it for me: stay a little longer. The neighbours' rooster crows out of rhythm, the smell of damp earth and dew slips through the crack of the door.

6:30 Dad sits at the stone table on the porch, making coffee in a small drip filter. I sit down beside him, and he pushes a little cup across. Black coffee, harshly bitter, and I wince. Dad smiles, says nothing. I drink it all. The two of us look at the freshly swept yard, a few leaves left behind in one corner. Something I only just noticed: Dad brews coffee more slowly than I thought. He stands watching each drop fall, like waiting for someone late who he is sure will arrive.

9:15 Mom calls me out to the garden to pick chillies. The two of us stand among the plants and she points out which ones are ripe.

"Only the red ones. Leave the green ones to ripen a few more days."

"I thought the green ones were the hot ones."

"Just listen to your mother, will you."

I have picked half a bowl when I notice my hands picking fast, to get it done, to catch up with some task that does not exist. I stop. Slow down. A red chilli still carries a bead of dew, cool, settling into the middle of my palm. Something that small, that is all.

11:30 Lunch. Caramelised fish in a clay pot, a vegetable soup, the rice still steaming. I pull out my phone. The teachers' group chat on Zalo has posted the Monday morning meeting schedule, and I reply to one message, then two.

"Eat, it's getting cold."

I look up. The fish pot is more than half empty and I cannot remember the taste of a single piece. Honestly, I feel a bit ashamed. I put the phone away, pick up another piece, and this time I chew. Salty, the fish firm, a little spicy. Mom watches me.

"Good?"

"Yes, good."

In the city I eat on the run every day, so eating that way even at my parents' house makes it show more clearly. There is a piece on eating a meal without holding your phone that I once read, and today I could not do it, but I did come back midway through the meal. That counts too.

15:20 I cannot nap, so I walk around the garden. In my head I rehearse a sentence I want to say to Dad: I'm thinking of asking for a transfer to a school closer to home. I rehearse it four times in four ways, gentle, serious, offhand as if it were nothing. A lap of the garden looks like walking ten minutes with nowhere to go, yet my head is sitting in a staff meeting at school. I finish the lap without seeing a single tree, hearing a single sound. At the guava tree a thump comes from behind me: a ripe guava falling onto the grass. I turn and look at it lying there, yellow, split along one small line, a fruit fly already arrived. I stand there longer than needed. The sentence is still unsaid to Dad, and may stay unsaid today. There is a piece on the conversation I rehearsed in my head for two weeks, and I think I will reread it.

17:10 Mom packs a bag: chillies, greens, a few guavas, a jar of pickled mustard greens. I say it is too much, I cannot carry it. Mom says I can. Mom always says I can. Dad goes to open the gate, one hand resting on a rusted corner of the iron bar.

17:25 I wheel the bike out through the gate and start the engine. In the rear-view mirror Dad is still standing there, still with one hand on the gate. Reaching the end of the road I look back and he is still standing. I raise a hand, not knowing if he sees it. At the bend I stop looking.

21:45 Back at my place in the city. I open the bag and the smell of ripe guava spreads through the room. There is a message from Dad on my phone: Home yet, son. I type "Yes, home", then type "I'll call tomorrow morning", delete one word, type it again, send.

Today was not perfect: a lunch spent scrolling, a lap of the garden without seeing a tree. But there was a bamboo broom, a bitter cup of coffee, and a person standing at the gate until I disappeared around the bend.

If you want to try writing down a day like this, it does not have to be a trip home, any day with your parents near or far will do:

The first time, many people find noting the hours a bit stiff, and some feel their day had nothing worth writing. Often that is a sign you are telling big stories instead of true ones. Write what your hands are holding, what sound is in the air. After a few days, some people find they begin to notice small details while their parents are still in front of them. Others notice nothing different, and that is all right.

This article was created with AI assistance.