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 of life when we were learning to read and write, many simple things appeared to nurture our feelings. From then on, we naturally learned to love the village road, the river, the ripe rice fields, and to appreciate the rice grains that were carefully cultivated by the hard work of our parents through the four seasons of rain and sunshine. 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. 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 covered with 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 forever. We return home to be children again, to be caressed and caressed, but we see how shallow and small we are.
I love how my mother's simple kitchen is filled with the warm fire, crackling happily every morning and evening. The kitchen entrusts a mother's love to meals that, though simple, are full of deliciousness. I love so much the rustic fragrance that is skillfully and skillfully distilled from the simple yet intimate greetings and calls. Sharing and helping each other in big and small matters is a simple custom that becomes a deep bond of neighborly love.
After each long journey, the first thing we do when returning 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 take a deep sleep under the eaves of our house, listening to the south wind blowing from the river and the faint 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 in the 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, without stopping to feel remorse. The layers of silt my parents diligently saved 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 in my life? 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 child wandering 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 those who are far from home all owe their homeland with a deep, indescribable longing and love. That longing is deep and strong, like a part of the sacred consciousness of origin that cannot be easily lost.
Article: Ngo The Lam
Illustration: Ho Long - Hai Vuong
