A feeling of excitement suddenly rose from deep within. The day I returned to my mother's hometown, the fields held my steps back, the patches of wild grass weaved white dreams of my youth. At the end of the road was a porch shaded by bamboo, red hibiscus flowers flickered along the path back to memories. Yellow butterfly petals lingered in the hands of people falling in front of the gate, meekly keeping promises to return. My footsteps gently touched the interwoven sunbeams, my heart bursting like when I was a child, I trotted home to my mother's call to eat a home-cooked meal.
In front of the yard filled with the sound of birds, mother attentively spreads rice to feed the chickens, the early morning wind blows from the fields gently. The mist slowly dissipates in the banana garden in front of the house, the sunlight penetrates the dreamy green leaves. The first cries of the day gently echo from the country road, and the bustling sounds of students in the countryside cycling to school. Mother holds a bundle of brooms, bending down to sweep the dry leaves that fell the night before, from the small alley around to the back of the house, under the rows of trees with the deep shadow of time. Mother's footsteps are slow, peaceful as if walking among folk songs. Then sometimes mother enters my dreams in the windy street attic, with the footsteps of a lifetime of wading through shallow fields, deep rivers, rain and lightning. In the house next door, someone drops a bucket to scoop water. The sparrows on the tiled roof startle very gently, flying one after another through the peaceful smoke of leaves.
My mother's simple hometown, a bamboo bed, an old well. Returning to my grandmother's porch, sitting on the bamboo bed, weathered by years, I felt myself returning to the summer nights shimmering with falling stars. Seeing my grandmother's silhouette quietly at dinner, I silently missed the image of him who had been gone to the misty land for decades. Slowly walking behind the house to pick up a cluster of fallen star fruit flowers, reflecting my reflection on the surface of the well water, swaying with the golden sunlight, my soul seemed to be washed away from all worries. Memories flowed back softly like cool water, before my eyes appeared the figure of my mother gently washing my grandmother's hair in the endless, hazy steam.
Grandma followed him to a distant place. Little did I know that the hand she held before leaving the village that day was her last. The corner of the village where I saw her off was filled with tears, the wind blew through the rows of trees standing still and sad. The house was quiet, the hammock was still by the closed window. The lingering scent of essential oils lingered in the minds of those who stayed behind. The old bamboo bed was worn out, the well behind the house had fallen purple star fruit flowers, heartbreaking. Mom sat for a long time in Grandma's house, silently looking through the window. Was her heart aching for her, like me, when I was far away from the city, my heart also ached for her? Perhaps every child far from their mother in this world, whether their hair was green in spring or streaked with silver, kept for themselves an unceasing longing for their mother.
The mother's hometown no longer has its old name. But no matter what, the hometown is still the hometown with all the affection of the flesh and blood. The hometown is still the hometown with the tolerant shadow of the mother, who never stops thinking about her children going back and forth in all directions. With the deep affection in every plowed furrow, clod of soil, blade of grass, in the many stories that the grandmother used to tell every night. With the loving alluvium that seeps deep into every rice field, every river that silts the land. With every beat of the heart that never runs out of the source of loyal humanity, no matter what, it is still intact, fragrant with human love...
Source: https://baophuyen.vn/xa-hoi/202506/que-me-bbd2db3/
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