[E-Magazine]: Through the summer rain

The rain passed, the noisy summer came, the sun stood proudly on the blue sky. I wondered how long the street had existed? Did the street remember every face, every life that had left its footprints here?

One afternoon, forgetting the sun, the sky was burdened with heavy gray clouds overhead, I caught the last bus to get to the city in time for the next day's lecture. I encountered an early summer shower, the rain fell in a hurry, sprinkled on the roof of the bus and there were even stones that sparkled like transparent glass. The whole group of buses were excited about the hail, cheering along with the sound of the rain. As for me - a student, I sat sadly, my heart sinking, watching the heavy raindrops. There was something so immense and memorable about the street that afternoon...

Remembering the old days like the radio next to my grandfather’s bed, I sat listening to my sister recite the lesson by heart. The downpour brought with it the bitterness of the old season, drop after drop falling, swirling and flowing towards the drain before disappearing. The chicks shook their wet feathers, each pair of tiny yellow legs standing close together for the mother hen to spread her wings to protect them. My sister’s voice was clear and sweet, telling a riddle: “If you don’t knock on them, they will cry, if you don’t poke them, they will fall, what is it, Na?”

I shook my head and couldn't answer. She pointed to the sky: "It's thunder and rain!"

I understood with the big round eyes of a four-year-old child. At that time, the rain was hanging over the porch with the bamboo blinds that my grandmother had opened. The adults in the house were away, only my sister and I. I sat with my chin resting on my hand, watching the raindrops chasing each other in the yard, playing happily. My mother was struggling in the rain from working in the fields, carrying a heavy load of fresh grass on her shoulder. She said that after this afternoon's rain, the winter-spring rice crop would begin to ripen. From that moment on, I understood many things, growing up with the years.

My sister always dreamed of going to the city to study at university, to go far away from the peaceful countryside, to join the bustling, vibrant place. But then, when my sister and I grew up, many family events happened, she had to drop out of school, cutting grass by the river every day. When she was a girl, she hurriedly got married. On her wedding day, I sat by the well crying and missing her. She told me to try my best to study. I was alone, with a small backpack, packing my bags and leaving home, carrying her dream with me. As for her, she became a hard-working woman, but in her eyes, there was something throbbing, forever like the shower of that year, wrapping up the memory of a dream that was too far away.

The street welcomed me with yellow lights. I was not used to it so sadness kept flickering in my heart like fireflies. I studied hard through my first year and then my second year of university, gradually falling in love with this land because my youth was filled with memories.

The heavy rain prevented the buses from stopping at the right stop. The streets were flooded, and there were no buses to take passengers. I walked back to my dormitory, the lights reflecting on the street like a shimmering moon. A student who was two years older than me came with me and held an umbrella for me. He told me to look up to the sky and drink the raindrops, that way I would avoid catching a cold. I believed him, so I couldn’t talk the whole way through the water because I was busy catching the raindrops.

He passed the alley on his way home and lent me his purple umbrella. I watched him, my heart pounding like a still-wet shower.

The rain passed, the noisy summer came, the sun stood proudly on the blue sky. I asked myself: how long has the street existed? Does the street remember every face, every life that has left its footprints here?

My youth will then wander endlessly along the streets to the future ahead. This afternoon, I encountered a summer shower. The pouring rain is filled with layers of memories. Am I thinking about someone, or can I not forget that person?

Content: Thanh Nga

Photo: Quyet Thang - Internet

Graphics: Mai Huyen

Source: https://baothanhhoa.vn/e-magazine-ngang-qua-con-mua-mua-ha-253856.htm