The Future Neo my mother bought me

2026 marks exactly twenty years since the Future Neo my mother bought me to kit me out for my first job. Yeah — twenty years of working at a dozen companies too (Papaya is the tenth). From my first company, Tìm Nhanh, until now, this warhorse has clocked over a hundred and thirty thousand kilometers. Loved and gotten angry at it more than a few times; traded new for old and then dropped the not-so-old for something even older too. And yet I keep coming back to my mother's gift — how could I throw it away? I can't, so I have to love it. Love it so I can save it for a son, a grandchild, a nephew — whichever kid is kind enough to love it is the one I'll hand it down to.

My heart is all love and affection, but the truth is I leave the thing sitting out in the street, rain or shine. Well — you and I, we weathered every border and every storm together, so who are we to complain about a little weather from the sky?

Sometimes the key's in the ignition and it still won't start. A horse without reins is like a man without direction; an unlocked bike is a pain in the ass to push. From the outside I look like a lazy bum who can't even bring himself to take the key out. Like a simpleton who just can't remember the one little task of pulling the key and stashing it somewhere. Stashed too well and I can't find it again — now the horse loses its reins too.

The reins have to stay with the horse: when it's time to ride out, you fire up the engine and go. Every morning, out into battle — the reins are right there, hop on and you're fighting. Every day, a thousand enemies slain.

And yet, twenty years in the blink of an eye, the horse is still strong, the reins are still here, and the general still fights one more enemy every day. Without the kindness of neighbors, the horse wouldn't be here, let alone the reins. Without those security guards watching over the bike like they're watching a warhorse, those reins would be long gone — and when they see the key just sitting there, they stash it away for me. Don't pull his key, they say, he always leaves it like that; I've kept it for him two or three times and he told me not to. Sometimes I see him ride into the lot like he's charging into battle, leap three steps at a time up to the second floor, and never has a chance to pull the key out.

Culture is what happens behind your back, when you're not there. Like when a husband rides out to war and his wife keeps the hearth warm at home. Like grandma looking after the grandkids, like grandpa looking after the plants, like aunts handing out new shirts. When Tết rolls around, there are peach blossoms and apricot blossoms, a pot of caramelized pork and eggs, melon seeds on the table.

There's love.