Under the green canopy of bamboo and the candleberry bushes, on a summer afternoon, some old people sat enjoying the breeze, some hung hammocks and took a good nap. Over time and geological changes, the river changed its course many times, the wharf shifted, some years the sand was deposited, some seasons the water was hollowed out and became very deep. But strangely, in my childhood memories, the candleberry bushes, the mossy stone steps, and the sound of water lapping against the shore always reminded me.
The wharf was really bustling during the planting and harvesting seasons. I remember the bamboo poles tying the neighbor's pair of buffaloes. The gentle animals lay chewing grass in the shade after a hard day's work plowing. Under the cool bamboo grove was a brown cot stained with time. I remember the image of my father sitting on the wharf, looking at the water and the sky, meticulously whittling each strip of bamboo, mending the sieve, and the broken sieve. The harvest season was also summer. The lychee trees along the riverbank were full of fruit, the sound of cuckoos chirping in the canopy of leaves...
When I was far from home, the image of the ferry and the ferryman always appeared in my mind. My mother said that although clean water was brought to the village, the women here still kept the habit of going to the ferry to wash clothes and chat. In the late afternoon, when the girls and women returned from the fields, the sound of laughter and chatter filled the river.
From this wharf, people from my hometown take boats across the river to go to the market, to the city, some carry bags far from home. And I, also from this familiar river, left with the desire to change my life. At night, the city sways with red and green lights, many times I long to find the moonlight shining on my hometown. I remember the moonlight shining on the wharf. Also under the moonlight, by the wharf, my first love blossomed, my youth was still full of shyness...
Sitting on the wharf, looking at the river of my hometown, I suddenly heard the faint, faint call of a ferry... There was no one there, it was just an illusion. Because not far away, a newly built bridge connected the village to the city, very convenient for traffic. People who wanted to go to the other side of the river no longer waited for the ferry, called for the ferry. The wharf with the old ferry lay exposed to the sun and rain, listening to the rhythm of time passing, feeling nostalgic and nostalgic.
Every time I mention the ferry, I remember the poem “My Lang Ferry” by poet Yen Lan. Just a ferry like any other ordinary ferry, but it is the reason for the poet to send his longing and nostalgia into it. I also remember that in some places, especially in the Central Highlands, the ferry is the first and most typical image to recognize and affirm the existence and development of each ethnic group.
Therefore, the water wharf worship ceremony has become one of the important activities expressing beliefs and practicing folk cultural rituals. In addition, as in the lowlands, in the village structure, the water wharf has long been a place for exchange and solidarity between members of the community.
The wharf of my village now only remains in memory. Along both sides of the river, people have built sturdy and spacious embankments. From now on, the images that created the wharf may gradually fade into oblivion, but I believe that the wharf that has recorded so many joys and sorrows, witnessed so many ups and downs of life will remain in everyone's heart.
Source: https://baogialai.com.vn/ben-nuoc-ngay-xua-post327176.html
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