She moved through the narrow street like a memory—Bà Mai, silver-haired beneath a sun-worn nón lá, face half-covered by a floral cloth mask. Her bicycle was old, rust clinging to the frame like dried mud, but the tires held, and the chain still sang. She pedaled slowly, skirts fluttering against her calves, a bundle of morning glory greens tied to the rear rack, a small basket of sweet potato and dried tofu up front.
The heat lingered. The street smelled of grilled squid and humidity. Motorbikes zipped past, but she stayed steady, drifting like a small boat in a big, fast river.
No one looked at her twice. And yet, there was beauty: the tilt of her hat, the quiet strength in her back, the rhythm of worn sandals on pedals. She passed schoolchildren, tourists with cameras, a man sweeping yellow leaves off a doorstep. A dog barked once, then lay back down. She didn’t wave. Didn’t speak.
Just kept riding—
through golden slats of light,
past lanterns waiting for dusk,
toward a small house with peeling paint,
where the kettle waited,
and the evening rice still needed cooking.