She moved through the alleys of Hội An with rhythm in her step—
one foot soft after the other,
the đòn gánh curved across her shoulders
like a quiet burden she no longer questioned.
Two baskets swung at either end:
green guava, ripe mango, longan in brown clusters,
a few bags of chili salt tied tight with string.
Her nón lá cast a long shadow across her face,
but you could still see her eyes—
sharp, scanning, gentle when met.
“Trái cây ngọt đây!”
Sweet fruit, fresh fruit!
She’d call it low,
not with desperation, but dignity—
the voice of someone who had walked these streets
since long before the first lantern photo booth,
since when Hội An was just Hội An.
A tourist paused.
Pointed to the mangosteen.
She smiled, offered a sample,
pressed salt into the tiny bag with a bamboo skewer.
No scales, no labels.
Just trust and hands and the warmth of sun on fruit.
By noon, the baskets would grow lighter.
By dusk, her blouse would be damp with sweat.
And still she’d walk—
under swaying bougainvillea,
past tiled roofs and yellow walls,
carrying not just fruit—
but memory, flavor,
and the living weight
of a woman’s day.