In every person’s life, there are so many memories, so many longings and loves. Surely everyone will more or less reserve a corner of their heart for their parents, their homeland, their beloved childhood home. On the endless journey back and forth, the image of their roots still aches in their hearts…
From the first lessons in life when we learn to read and write, many simple things appear to nurture our feelings. From there, we naturally love the village road, the river, the ripe rice fields, and appreciate the rice grains that have been carefully cultivated by our parents through the four seasons of hard work and rain. So no matter where we go, whether we succeed or fail, are happy or sad, we still yearn for a peaceful, familiar place that we affectionately call home!
Only then do we know that no matter how much we grow up, how much we have to endure the hardships and hardships, our love for our homeland is still like the nostalgia of a child when away from his mother, hardly able to overcome the songs and lullabies behind the bamboo fences of the village. Every time we return to our homeland, we feel so sad when we look at the gray hair that has been through more than half a lifetime of hardships and wind, the forehead and corners of the eyes full of crow's feet of our parents. Those wrinkled and calloused hands have spent their whole lives taking care of us, cherishing us from childhood until later. We return home to be children again, to be caressed and caressed, but we see how shallow and small we are.
I love how simple my mother's kitchen is, filled with the warm fire, crackling happily every morning and evening. The kitchen entrusts mother's love to the meals, though simple, but full of deliciousness. I love so much the fragrance of the countryside, skillfully and skillfully distilled from the simple greetings and calls, but intimate and close. Sharing and helping each other in big and small matters is like a simple custom that becomes a deep bond of neighborly love.
After each long journey, the first thing we do when we return home is to scoop a bucket of cool, clear well water over our heads and faces to wash away the dust of the long journey. Then we fall into a deep sleep under the eaves of our house, listening to the south wind blowing from the river, mixed with the sound of chickens jumping out of their nests. At that moment, we feel strangely peaceful and serene.
At night, the clear moon of my hometown radiates a peaceful fragrance, silvering the river. I can clearly hear the sound of crayfish splashing water, fish wagging their tails to catch the noisy reflections. Sitting with the river of my hometown, I think more about my parents' lives, about the ups and downs of human life, which I cannot help but feel remorseful about. The layers of silt that my parents diligently and painstakingly saved have been used to water and cultivate my life to be tall and broad.
Many times, sitting alone in the middle of the city, thinking, I wonder how many more trips I will have to return home? How many more opportunities will I have to be close to and take care of my parents? These questions are anchored in the heart of a wandering child in a foreign land, carrying a heavy debt of gratitude in his heart, leaving behind thoughts and worries.
So everyone, when you can still return, please do so, do not delay. Because all children living far away from home are indebted to their homeland with a deep and indescribable longing and love. That longing is deep and strong, like a part of the sacred consciousness of one's roots, not easily lost.
Article: Ngo The Lam
Illustration: Ho Long - Hai Vuong
