The steps, sparsely covered with green moss, resemble the footprints left by winter. Sometimes the clear sound of children's laughter rings out there, sometimes the afternoon sun fades into silence. Why do I keep remembering those steps and the eaves piled high with fallen leaves, each time my feet have to turn and leave...?
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| Illustration photo: Internet |
I wonder how many months and days have passed on those old brick steps, before the doorway leading to the house woven with memories? How many childhood afternoons did I spend skipping up the steps, or playing hopscotch with my friends, or doodling in the sunlit corner of the yard? How many times did I sit on those steps, waiting for my mother to return from the early morning market, each time with the same feeling of anticipation, watching her figure fade into the morning mist? Then there were the heart-stirring purple blossoms of the crape myrtle in spring, the carpet of crape myrtle flowers in the yard in summer, the yellow chrysanthemums clinging to the autumn afternoon falling across the window sill… and so, each season of flowers sent its longing and affection to those steps. Like a promise to return, to wrap up the dreams of my homeland, to warm the land of folk songs.
Winter steps, pink rain lilies bloom around the fading tiles, their patterns gradually disappearing. A small alley leads to a land shrouded in white mist, the silver tiles of old houses. There, my mother used to sit, combing her hair. From the time her hair was thick until it gradually thinned, like threads of time cutting into my heart, a sharp pain. I stand by the window, looking out, my heart aching for a figure sitting there, imbued with the vicissitudes of life. My mother would often roll the fallen strands of hair into small balls, just as my grandmother used to do every winter morning. I cherish the image of my mother and grandmother before the old steps of the house, so that sometimes my heart aches, my eyes sting with sorrow for things that have become distant. I have traveled through countless paths in the world, realizing that no place can replace those steps that guided my footsteps into the house of my childhood.
On the winter steps during the floods, everyone longed for the return of warm sunshine. Brown mud clung to the walls, marking the marks of the rising water. As the floodwaters receded, the sunlight shone brightly, like the color of life, of rebirth after so much turmoil and destruction. On the sloping steps, the shadow of a mother hunched over swept away the remnants of the flood, her reddened eyes gradually brightening with boundless hope. When the sun returns to the doorstep, we will once again hear the children's cheerful chatter, greeting their grandparents after school; we will see our mother sitting and sewing, combing her hair, humming a few random tunes. Father will rise early again, brewing a pot of fragrant tea, the steam dissipating into the cold mist, slowly setting up the chessboard, listening to the birds chirping on the tiled roof.
The winter steps, where I still wait for those I love to return, no matter how far apart we are. Where my mother often tearfully embraces my shoulder after long journeys to earn a living. Where my grandmother leaves behind her image each morning in the rosy sunlight, with her comb and tangled locks of hair, before returning to my grandfather in the distant land. I stand amidst these beloved steps, realizing that there will be no separation if hearts still remember each other and memories are preserved like letters kept in a drawer through the years.
I sit with winter, nurturing countless memories in my heart. In the distance, the cold wind has returned to the old doorstep, and I silently call out to my younger self, from a time of youthful innocence…
Source: https://baodaklak.vn/van-hoa-du-lich-van-hoc-nghe-thuat/van-hoc-nghe-thuat/202512/bac-them-mua-dong-5090c26/
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