Duc was a freshman.
After a few months in the city, Duc already found himself aching for the simple flavors of home – craving the taste of free-range chicken, the cool sweetness of a bowl of freshly picked malabar spinach soup, longing to savor a crisp, golden tilapia caught from the pond. Today, he was back in his village.
That morning, he lingered in bed for a while, letting himself be wrapped in the familiar sounds he had missed so dearly – the playful barking of the dogs, the restless clucking of the chickens, the greedy grunts of the pigs. All through the night, the neighbor’s cow kept mooing., perhaps mourning its calf. From the dike, frogs croaked in chorus, and fireflies flickered gently beyond the window frame.
To Duc, these sounds blended into a tender symphony of the countryside, a song that touches and melts the hearts of the exiled.. When he stepped out to the old well and splashed his face with water drawn from deep within the earth, the coolness seemed to wash away the dust of the city, quenching his spirit and leaving his soul refreshed, as though the land itself had embraced him once more.
Duc’s father – Mr. Tam walked past, his shoulders bent beneath a heavy bundle of grass. He had long been accustomed to rising in the faint light before dawn, when the world still lingered in silence. His neck tilted to one side, strained by the weight, the bundle so vast and unwieldy it seemed twice the length of his body, forcing his back into a weary stoop.
His days revolved around a simple, steadfast duty: tending to two mother cows and a young calf. They were his family’s most treasured possession, the very heart of their livelihood. And so he cared for them with quiet devotion – planting grass, watering, cutting, leading them to the hills and forests when the fields could no longer keep pace with their hunger. They were not just his work, but his companions, his daily solace. Without them, he would scarcely know how to spend his hours. Each year, when a calf was born, his joy was uncontainable – as if life had granted him a small but precious gift.
Yet after the harvest season, when work slowed, idleness brought with it a quiet loneliness. At times, Duc would see his father sitting on the stone bench, pipe in hand, drawing long, bitter pulls of tobacco. His gaze would drift toward the wide, empty fields, heavy with unspoken sorrow.
Đức’s father had left school after the third grade, his handwriting shaky, uneven, yet his resolve unwavering: his son would be educated, would go further than he ever could. He worked himself ragged to put Đức through school. Now, with age pressing down upon him, he could no longer hire himself out for labor. But his sacrifices bore fruit – Duc was admitted to medical school, the most prestigious in the country.
When the acceptance letter came, Mr. Tâm slaughtered a pig to host a feast for the entire village. Pride lit his face as neighbors gathered, praising his boy: handsome, respectful, diligent. So many children in the city, with every comfort at hand, could not achieve what Đức had. By day, Đức toiled in the fields, shoulder to shoulder with his father. By night, he studied relentlessly by the dim flame of an oil lamp. People admired his grit, his iron will. In that little village, to enter university was as glorious as earning the title of scholar in days of old.
Duc was the firstborn son of Mr. Tam, the boy who had made him a father when he himself was only nineteen. All the hardship of raising a child, all the quiet burdens of poverty – these were struggles he carried alone. Duc knew well the weight of their poverty, and so he studied with ferocious determination, reading until dawn. Some nights, it was only the stern voice of Mr. Tam next door that forced him to put his books aside and go to sleep.
Medical school demanded the highest marks, and Duc understood the unforgiving road ahead if he was to become a doctor. The day the letter arrived, joy burst from him like sunlight breaking through clouds. And his father – his weathered, stoic father – let tears stream down his face. For in that moment, all the years of toil, all the silent sacrifices, all the backbreaking labor of a lifetime suddenly felt worthwhile.
Duc’s life turned a new page the day he set foot in the dazzling city.
The glittering hotels, the towering grade-A office buildings, the shimmering Hoan Kiem Lake like an enchanted painting – all of it could not ease his yearning for the countryside. Duc arrived in the city like a sheet of untouched white paper, timid and unsteady, carrying with him only a single treasure: a cherished dream.
The city felt like another world, one far removed from the bamboo hedges that had cradled his first eighteen years. To Duc, the city was a place to strive, not to belong; it was never his future. His dream was simple: finish his studies, work a few years for experience, then return home to open a small clinic right where he was born – where he could heal and care for his own people.
Home, to Duc, was like a beloved maiden of the countryside – modest, unadorned, yet endlessly endearing. To her he had made a vow: one day he would return, prosperous enough to give her a grand wedding, to provide her both material comfort and unwavering devotion. No matter where he went or what he did, his heart remained tethered to her. Every effort, every struggle was a whispered promise to her – that he would one day come back and never let her endure hardship again. For now, all he could do was work tirelessly, and visit her whenever he could.
That morning, he wandered into the garden. Sweet potato vines sprawled gently across the earth, while neat rows of tomato plants bore their first fruits. He plucked a small, ripe tomato, rubbed it clean against his shirt, and popped it into his mouth. The burst of sweetness, fresh and fragrant, filled him with a childlike joy. He picked a few more, savoring the taste of home. Sunlight spilled across each leaf, each blade of grass, each wildflower; a soft breeze swept by, and his very soul seemed to stir awake. Duc thought to himself: when old age comes, all he would ever ask for is a peaceful life like this – among gardens, trees, and the tender rhythm of nature.
He climbed toward the chicken coop by the cassava field, where a few mother hens fussed protectively. Nearby, a litter of puppies squirmed and whimpered. His father had moved them here to keep watch over the crops. The little ones tumbled and nursed greedily, eight of them in all, while their mother, emaciated and hollow-flanked, dragged herself about, her ribs visible, her teats dangling, as if her body could never produce enough milk to satisfy her brood. Sometimes, in sheer weariness, she would try to escape, only to be pursued by the noisy trail of her hungry pups.
Duc, who adored dogs, could never imagine harming them, let alone eating their flesh. He only wished to cradle them, to shower them with affection. In the distance, chicks chirped and scurried, fragile as blossoms in the wind – tiny creatures, no bigger than a fist. Duc longed to scoop them up gently into his palm, to protect their delicate warmth.
This, Duc thought, was what it meant to be truly alive. For him, home was not simply a place – it was the very essence of living.
While still cuddling the little puppy, Duc heard his father, Tam, calling from the yard:
“Duc! Your grandparents are asking you to come down for lunch!”
Duc looked up and asked:
“Is there something special going on at their house today, Dad?”
His father replied:
“Nothing at all. It’s just that you haven’t been home for so long, they want you to eat with them for joy.”
Duc asked again:
“Aren’t you coming too, Dad?”
His father shook his head:
“No, I’ve got too much work to finish here. They’re only asking for you.”
At ten in the morning, Duc set off on his bicycle.
He pedaled past golden rice fields, breathing in the gentle breeze, the faint fragrance of gourd blossoms along the roadside mingling with the scent of ripening grain. In this village, nearly every household was bound by kinship, one way or another. The old dirt slope on the way had now been paved with concrete, though Duc secretly preferred it the way it used to be – simple, earthen, familiar.
From afar, he saw the iron gate of his grandparents’ house already open. His heart lifted at the sight of his grandmother’s thin figure emerging from the kitchen, carrying a small wooden stool, while his grandfather walked up from the garden with a handful of freshly picked red amaranth.
“Grandpa! Grandma! What are you two doing?”
That was the way people in the countryside greeted one another – no handshakes, no embraces, for such gestures felt too formal, too clumsy. In the village, affection was something to be sensed, not performed; the heart was enough.
Grandmother’s face lit up with joy. She came closer, laying her thin hands on her grandson’s shoulders, patting them gently. Her eyes sparkled with kindness, the crow’s-feet and wrinkles stretching as if to make room for her smile. What happiness could compare with the joy of reunion, of seeing blood kin once more?
“When did you get back, boy? Only few months, you already look so grown up, don’t you?”
“I came back yesterday afternoon,” Duc answered.
“Did you take the coach? Or the bus?”
“The coach, Grandma.”
“And weren’t you carsick?”
“No, Grandma. I used to take the bus all the time before, so now the coach doesn’t make me sick anymore.”
Grandfather chuckled, adding:
“A young man shouldn’t be carsick in the first place!”
Duc laughed sheepishly:
“At first I was, though. Every trip, I’d get off and throw up until I was green in the face.”
Grandmother’s heart ached for him:
“Oh dear… then don’t come back too often, unless it’s necessary. The journey’s tiring. Focus on your studies.”
Grandfather eyed his grandson with both pride and concern:
“You look thinner these days, and darker too.”
“I’ve been out in the sun a lot, Grandpa,” Duc replied, grinning awkwardly.
And with that, his laughter – warm, boyish – filled the small courtyard, binding three generations together in quiet contentment.
Duc did not want to tell them that these days he was moonlighting as a motorbike driver, braving sun and rain alike. Back home, though life was frugal, he had always been sheltered in the embrace of family, never burdened with thoughts of bread and rice. But in the city, every little thing demanded money. Each month, his father sent him three million for meals, and still worried it would not suffice. From time to time, his father would call, offering to send more should any unexpected expenses arise – though the family was far from well-off. What haunted the old man most was the fear that his son might go hungry. With prices rising everywhere, he grew restless.
In the village, one could always pluck a handful of greens for supper, draw cool well water to quench thirst. But in the city, such things did not exist. Duc did not want to ask for more, knowing how hard it was for his father, who sometimes had to borrow just to cover tuition. His father would never speak of it, simply urging Duc to study with a clear mind, free of financial worry.
So Duc took to driving, not only to earn a little, but to learn the city’s roads, to encounter life beyond the classroom, to make new connections, to harden his spirit. For a student, driving passengers was nothing unusual. Yet he kept it from his grandparents, from his parents – why trouble them with worry?
Duc’s grandfather turned back inside and packed a pipe of strong tobacco. With practiced fingers, he rolled a pinch into a neat ball, dropped it into the pipe, struck the lighter, and drew in a long, deep breath. He smoked like an artist at work. Then, with a practiced flick, he tapped the ashes so they flew neatly into the bin. Tilting back his head, cheeks hollowed, eyes half-closed, he exhaled slowly, surrendering himself to that brief, hazy bliss. His eyelids clung together as though sealed with resin, opening again only with languid reluctance.
In Duc’s family, smoking pipe tobacco had long become a tradition, passed down through generations. Great-grandfather, grandfather, father – all had their pipes. Once, Duc tried a puff himself, but found only bitterness, sharp and acrid, nothing of the pleasure that could explain such an addiction.
Duc’s eyes wandered around, from the house to the alley, searching for signs of change. Nothing much had shifted. His grandparents still lived in a modest, two-room house – one bedroom and an outer living space. In the old days, it had been a thatched cottage with clay walls; later, with the children’s contributions, the roof was rebuilt with red tiles, giving it a sturdier, more dignified look. They preferred to live on their own, for the freedom it gave them, even if it meant cooking for themselves. That, too, was a kind of joy. Sometimes, their children would bring over good food, and that alone was enough to brighten their faces.
At the center stood a broad wooden platform, serving as the guest seat. Above it was the ancestral altar, where three black-and-white portraits of forebears watched over the household. Each visit home, Duc never forgot to bring an offering of sweets to place upon the altar, bowing reverently. For it was through the ancestors that his grandparents had life, through his grandparents that his parents were born, and through his parents that he himself had come into this world. His grandfather often reminded him: Never forget your roots.
Upon the platform sat a worn tea set, the glaze long faded, the spout of the teapot chipped – yet to his grandfather, it was as precious as an antique. Two beds stood on either side; when the family gathered, the children would clamber onto them, laughing, chattering, filling the air with warmth. In those moments, his grandparents’ joy was complete, surrounded by the noise of their descendants. On the morning of the Lunar New Year, the house would be packed to the brim.
Beside his grandmother’s bed stood a small television, its screen clouded and dim. The old cabinet beneath it bore the dust and cobwebs of years gone by. Scattered near her bedside were packets of medicine – mostly vitamins and Western pills. On the walls hung family photographs: brothers, sisters, and one of his grandfather in uniform, medals shining proudly on his chest, taken during the war years in the South.
Out on the veranda, clothes and towels fluttered from the line, alongside a faded blue soldier’s uniform. The old well still drew water by rope and bucket. Nearby, a simple bathroom of brick and cement stood beside a lush green trellis of betel vines, their leaves curling around the posts.
After taking in the familiar sights, Duc turned his gaze toward his grandmother. His heart tightened with a strange mixture of joy and sorrow. Joy, because she was still here before him. Sorrow, she seemed weaker, her limbs frailer than he remembered. Long ago, she had suffered a stroke during childbirth, leaving her fingers and toes twisted, curled in upon themselves. She could not slip on a pair of sandals, and so she went barefoot. She could not wield chopsticks, relying only on a spoon. In the bitter cold of winter nights, her joints stiffened as though frozen, confining her to her bed or chair. Her health rose and fell with the weather: warm days brought ease, cold days brought pain.
All her life had circled within this small village. She had never once set foot in another province. To speak of travel was to speak of luxury, something far beyond her reach. Looking at her, Đức silently vowed: One day, I will take her places. I will push her wheelchair if I must, but I will take her to the Surprise Cave, to Hoa Lu, Phong Nha Ke Bang... His only wish was that she might live long enough to see him graduate.
Lost in his dreams of the future, Duc was suddenly pulled back by his grandfather’s voice:
“Come inside, boy, it’s cold out here. Your grandma’s already boiling the chicken.”
Đức smiled in surprise.
“You even slaughtered a chicken for me?”
His grandfather waved a hand, half teasing, half earnest:
“Well, you don’t come home often. What’s the point of keeping a hen once it stops laying? Better to cook it up than waste good grain.”
He said it as though to ease Duc’s guilt, for in truth, meat was a rare thing on their table. His grandmother, with most of her teeth long gone, had once tried wearing a gleaming set of false teeth. But within days, she had to take them out – they bit into her gums, making every chew a torment. His grandfather, meanwhile, mostly kept to a vegetarian fare. Salted sesame with rice, perhaps a few pickled eggplants, and that was enough. He had a fondness for scooping the pickled eggplants into his bowl of soup, savoring the tang. A little tofu, a few boiled greens – that was his feast.
“Meat these days is all pumped full of strange growth stuff,” he often muttered: “So many people get cancer now. Better to eat what the land gives you – simple, clean.
And yet, from such humble meals, his body remained strong, sinewy, resilient. Illness rarely touched him. Đức often thought it must be Heaven’s mercy, sparing him strength so he could tend to Đức’s grandma through her decades of frailty. She herself would say: Without him, I would have been gone long ago. People often claimed no child’s devotion could equal a spouse’s care – but in this village, no one had ever seen a husband watch over his wife with such quiet, steadfast love.
Children and grandchildren had their own burdens, their own lives far away. But his grandfather kept the household alive in his own way. A small garden, rows of vegetables, and a coop of hens raised only for eggs. Behind the kitchen, he had fenced off a space for dogs. Under his care, even the village mongrels grew sleek, their coats puffed soft like prized breeds. Every morning, after his trip to the market, he brought home scraps of fish heads and tails from the vendors, simmering them into broth, always careful to strip out the bones so they wouldn’t choke. “They need a bit of fishy taste to grow well,” he’d say.
Each dog was fed neatly from clean trays, in measured portions – never too much, never too little. He never tossed food onto the dirt, never fed them leftovers soured at the bottom of a pot.
And then, there was his grandmother’s beloved companion – a little cat, nimble and quick, weaving through corners and cupboards with its constant mewling. Sometimes it would curl right beside her on the bed, warm against her side, as though it, too, was keeping vigil over her.
From the front porch, Grandpa called out toward the kitchen:
“Is the chicken done yet, Grandma?”
Before she could answer, Đức chimed in eagerly:
“Let me check for you.”
Duc picked up a pair of chopsticks and gently poked at the meat near the thigh. A streak of red still seeped out.
“Not yet, Grandpa. I’ll keep the fire low and let it simmer a little longer.”
Duc glanced around the earthen kitchen. Bundles of dried chinaberry wood crackled softly in the hearth. A golden chicken was bubbling away in a small cast-iron pot balanced on a three-legged trivet, soot darkening the walls above. On the shelf, only a few jars of fish sauce and salt, along with some scattered bowls and chopsticks. The air carried the faint, sweet fragrance of burning chinaberry wood. Đức felt a warmth unlike any other – this humble kitchen of his grandparents held the very essence of his childhood memories.
“Duc, Leave that there, go pick me a few lime leaves from the corner of the garden.”
“Okay, Grandpa!”
“The lime tree’s pretty old now. Just take whatever decent leaves you can find. Chicken without lime leaves doesn’t taste as good.” Gandpa said.
Duc stepped into the garden. The guava tree he once used to climb had long been cut down, leaving only a rough stump beside the withering lime tree. Its branches bore nothing but hardened, dusty leaves. He plucked a few, rinsed them clean. Lime leaves must be sliced into the thinnest strips – that was what his father used to remind him. Duc set aside the congealed chicken blood, cooling on a plate, and mixed it with the leaves, tossing in a touch of chili, just enough for a faint fiery tang. A sprinkle of salt – then another, for his grandparents liked their food savory.
The chicken was done. His grandfather lifted it from the pot and placed it in a basket to cool. Duc took the cleaver to chop it up. His grandmother, meanwhile, tossed a handful of freshly washed red amaranth into the pot of boiling broth. His grandfather fried a slab of tofu and cracked a few eggs. These were real country eggs, from hens that wandered freely under the sun, scratching for worms, pecking at grass, feeding on grains of rice – so different from the bland, pallid eggs of factory farms. Their yolks glowed golden.
When everything was ready, his grandfather went into the room and returned with a mat. It was an old mat, its fibers frayed, holes torn open at the corners, yet it had borne witness to countless warm family meals. In Duc’s village, meals shared on the mat were what bound kin together – simple, heartfelt, and close. Dining at tables and chairs, as in the city, always felt too distant.
The meal was modest, just three people gathered – grandfather, grandmother, Đức – and the quiet presence of a cat.
Grandmother, by long habit, would set aside the yolk of her egg for the cat, keeping only the white for herself, fearing the richness might cause her to choke. The chicken, carefully carved by Duc, was cut into small, tender pieces, as though prepared for a child learning to eat – for what teeth had they left to manage otherwise?
Gazing at the round, humble tray, Duc felt a pang of tenderness. Two plates of chicken lay before them: one with the prized breast and drumsticks, the other with neck, wings, and innards. The golden broth shimmered with fat, rich and fragrant, while beside it a bowl of red amaranth soup glowed softly. Grandmother said that the red amaranth was good for the blood, rich in iron. A plate of crisp fried tofu, touched with perilla leaves, stood nearby, alongside eggs fried golden with a scatter of green onions, and a small bowl of pickled eggplants – the grandfather’s favorite.
In earlier days, these meals had always been crowded, with uncles, aunts, cousins filling every corner with voices and laughter. But now, this rare, intimate meal with just his grandparents felt strangely precious. Duc sat there, not merely as a guest but as their beloved grandson, the quiet pride of their old age.
“Eat up, my boy!”
Grandma said as she dropped a chicken drumstick into Duc’s bowl, then slipped in a wing too – she knew that had always been his favorite since he was little. And as if that wasn’t enough, she added the chicken heart, even though Duc’s bowl was already full to the brim.
“Oh, Grandma, that’s way too much!” Duc laughed.
“Better eat while you’re home! Up in the city, where would you find chicken this good?”
Đức grinned, feeling warm inside.
“In Hanoi it’s all factory-raised chickens, the meat’s mushy and bland. Once day, I’ll take you to Hanoi with me.”
Grandpa chimed in with a chuckle:
“Your grandma’s never stepped foot outside this village her whole life.”
“So where would you like to go, Grandma?” Duc asked.
Grandma sighed softly.
“Now that I’m old, I don’t have the strength to travel far. Your grandpa and I are like bananas turning ripe, like yellow leaves about to drop. We only wish to stay healthy, not be a burden, and to see you kids often – that’s happiness enough. But…” She paused for a moment, her voice turning wistful. “I’d like to see the sea, just once. All my life, I’ve only seen it on TV. They say seawater is salty – I’d love to taste it myself.”
Grandpa burst out laughing:
“Oh, you old woman! How’s that any different from the salt water I already mix for you?”
In that very moment, Duc etched his grandmother’s wish deep into his heart, he would take her to Da Nang, to Nha Trang, to Hoi An, to Quang Ninh – wherever along the sinuous S-shaped land the sea stretched its arms, he would bring her there.
The meal felt different somehow – special in a way Duc could not explain. Perhaps it was the long absence from home, or perhaps it was simply the quiet warmth of sitting down with his grandparents again. Whatever it was, he felt as though this was the most delicious meal of his life. Each grain of rice had been born of the toil of his parents, uncles, and aunts, from fields drenched in sweat and sun. No feast of delicacies, no banquet at a five-star resort could ever compare to this simple table shared with his grandparents.
The vegetables, the eggs, the chicken – all carried within them not only nourishment but care. They were tender, sweet, and savory – not just on the tongue but deep within the heart, filling him with a cooling, soothing warmth. Through every bite, Duc was tasting the love his grandparents had poured into these dishes. While the old couple ate slowly, savoring each bite, Duc tore into the chicken wings and drumstick as if he had been craving them for an entire year.
When the meal was done, Grandma called Duc out to the chicken coop. A hen lay upon her nest, its tiny round brown eyes staring in bewilderment, wings fluttering lightly, feathers sleek and glistening. Grandma gently lifted the hen, and beneath it were several eggs, still warm from its body. With tender hands, Granma picked them up and placed them carefully into a bag lined with husk.
“Take these eggs with you to the city, eat them while they’re fresh.”
“Oh no, Grandma, better let the hen hatch them.” Duc said, glancing at the mother hen on her nest, feeling a little sorry for it.
But strangely enough, the hen didn’t resist at all. Its tiny round eyes seemed to brighten, and it even shifted, lifting its bottom so Grandma could easily pick out the rest of the eggs.
“You’re giving me all of them, Grandma?” Duc asked.
“Of course, she’ll lay more. Look over there – there are still a few full nests,” Grandma smiled gently.
Carefully, she gathered each egg, her frail hands cradling them as though they might shatter at the slightest touch. She wrapped them carefully in dry straw, bundling them with a tenderness that seemed to hold more than just eggs, then placed them neatly into Duc’s bicycle basket. When Duc returned to the city, his eyes lingered on that small basket. In that simple bag of eggs, he saw not merely the yield of a hen, but the boundless love of his grandmother, the warmth of family, the very soul of his homeland folded into each fragile shell.
One weeks later…
Duc was fumbling about, preparing a modest meal in his cramped boarding room when the phone suddenly rang. On the other end, his father’s voice trembled, each word breaking, weighted with sorrow:
“Duc… come home right away, son…Your grandma has fallen…the hospital has sent her back…this time she won’t make it…hurry, if you can, to see her one last time…”
The words struck him like a blow. Duc stammered, numb, his body collapsing within itself. His hands shook uncontrollably; his heart – did it stop, or did it pound a hundred times faster? He could not tell. Did he still breathe in that moment? He could not tell. A dizzying wave swept over him, leaving him gasping, unmoored, the world tilting into silence as the terrible news crashed against him.
The little bag of eggs his grandmother had so carefully gathered still lay there. Duc had not even finished them – and yet she was gone. Just days ago, he had sat beside her at the lunch table, was that meal with Grandma a harbinger, a foreshadowing of an eternal farewell? Tears burst forth, unrelenting, a flood surging, torrential, unstoppable, as though no dam on earth could hold them back.
Duc sobbed in broken cries, each one rising from the depths of his aching heart:
“ Grandma… oh, Grandma… I never even had the chance to take you to the sea…”
📍VP, September 30, 2017
(Excerpted from “The Last Meal with Grandma” in Ha Kim’s Short Story Collection)
