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On Music


To the songs that breaks us.

 

It is almost bedtime.

 

I am listening to one of my Vietnamese bolero songs, and suddenly, I have this urge to sing. I think of another song—one I’ve never been able to finish, that always catches in my throat, that always makes my voice waver.

 

I try again this time.

 

The song is called Mỗi Mùa Xuân Về Là Thêm Một Lần Dối Mẹ. It tells the story of a son who leaves his home country,  lies to his mother every spring, telling her he will come back next year. He never does. And each passing year, he knows she is growing older, the house is falling apart, wonders if the cherry blossom tree will bloom again.

 

The way the words are written, how they are arranged—they hit something deep. The lyrics sit heavy on my chest, pressing, pressing, until the tears come, when my voice cracks and I have to stop.

 

I think of another song—Lời Cha Dạy. This one is about a father. About a mother who has passed. A father left behind, raising his son, teaching him how to be a good person, to get a respectable job, to live with integrity. The song says that when the father is gone, the son will remember everything he was taught. Will carry his lessons forward. Will live by them.

 

I can’t get through this one either.

 

Something about the music video, the story, the weight of it all—it’s too much. My voice falters, my throat tightens, and I know, once again, that I won’t make it to the end.

 

And then I realize.

 

Both of these songs—they are about family.

 

With the divorce, with everything that happened years ago, I haven’t spoken to my father. And now my mother and I live together. So these songs—they cut deeper. They remind me of what was, of what isn’t, of what could have been.

 

I wonder how he is.

 

I wonder if he is happy.

 

And I wonder—behind my mother’s laughter, behind her smiles—how much she is holding back, how much she is carrying alone.

 

I think I should give her a hug.

 

Edited by Philip

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