Kites of Childhood

(Baonghean) - Long ago, those childhood seasons stretched out, kites flying in the vast expanse of wind and boundless green fields. Children in shorts and short-sleeved shirts, their eyes gazing up at the sky, their feet running swiftly along the small rice paddies, their laughter still echoing throughout those cherished years…

Making a kite took a lot of effort. My older brother whittled the bamboo, my youngest brother glued the paper, and I always vied for the task of attaching the kite string. Not every kite that was finished could fly high, so my older brother often had to adjust it repeatedly. My youngest brother always wanted a kite that flew really high, surpassing the kite of the chubby Tùng in the neighborhood. So whenever his kite fell to the ground, he would sulk and sit on the porch with a sad face. Finally, my eldest brother decided to dedicate a whole week to making a giant kite for my youngest brother. I also became busier with going around asking for string to attach, just thinking about a kite soaring high in the sky filled me with joy. That small but sacred joy of childhood. My youngest brother carefully wrote all his dreams on the kite, and looking at his naive handwriting, my father smiled kindly: "You children are rich in dreams." It was a great comfort, knowing that later, when our family faced many hardships, we would know how to overcome them and grow into responsible adults.

My childhood years were filled with kites. (Illustrative image: Internet)

My father worked as a construction laborer from dawn till dusk, so he hardly had time to make kites for the three of us. But he always cherished all the kites we made. I remember some afternoons when he came home from work, his shirt soaked with sweat, his fingernails and toenails corroded by the mortar, but he wouldn't rush to shower. Instead, he would always carefully wrap up our kites and put them away. He was afraid that the next morning they would be blown away by a gust of wind, or torn to shreds by a mischievous cat, leaving us with nothing to play with. My youngest brother always had something to show off. Sometimes he'd say, "Dad, today my kite flew much higher than Tung's!" Other times, "Dad, today my dreams flew all the way up to the sky!" Dad would laugh and say, "That's right, up there the fairies will read your wishes!" My youngest brother would happily giggle, burying his face in Dad's chest and falling asleep without realizing it. Those naive but beautiful years have passed…

Now that we've grown up, the three of us are scattered far and wide, leaving only our parents behind in the old garden, waiting at the gate every afternoon for us to come home. Surely, on those summer afternoons, watching the children fly kites in the fragrant rice paddies, our parents must be reminiscing about the old days… And old people are very easily moved and sentimental about things from the past.

In the afternoon, after a tiring day filled with worries, I rode my motorbike to the stadium to watch kite flying. Hearing the song "Homeland River" somewhere, my heart suddenly yearned for my childhood. I remember one afternoon when the kite's string broke and it flew away. I sat and cried until the sun had completely set. My father came home from work, picked me up in his arms, and said the kite had carried my wish to the fairy. Only then did I smile, looking up at the sky which had begun to sparkle with stars. The next afternoon, my older brother ran to the neighboring village's field and saw the kite torn to shreds by grasshoppers and locusts. He didn't dare bring it home or tell me, fearing I would be sad...

It turns out that in everyone's life, there are many kites whose strings break and fly away into the horizon. These are kites we cherish, but we lacked the strength to hold onto them, so we must let the wind carry them away… We will miss those kites that flew away with broken strings, but we will grow up again, and continue to love and dream.

Vu Thi Huyen Trang