Reeds, the wild flowers of the wild grasses scattered on the riverbank in the cold wind of early season, why are they so beautiful?

When the cold winds come, we realize that another windy season has passed in our lives. Looking at the reeds blooming and fluttering in the immense north wind, a distant memory suddenly comes to life.

The small, winding hamlet nestles behind rows of old trees. Rows of trees silently spend their entire lives reflecting the homeland. We walk on the familiar country road with the eye-watering smoke from burning fields, with the strong scent of rice mixed in every breeze, with the laughter of country children.

On that road, my mother often held my hand through the long years of my childhood. On that road, every morning my mother still carried on her head a small basket with a few bunches of wild vegetables, a nest of chicken eggs, and a few tilapia, leading me to school on the road covered in early morning mist.

I walked into class, my mother sat on the side of the road, displaying her wares for sale. Some days I couldn't sell anything, looking at the wilted vegetables, the dried fish, the eggs that were hot to the touch because of the sun.

At that time, I did not dare to look deeply into my mother's sad eyes. I grew up from the silent thrift, from the bundles of vegetables, the fish, the nests of eggs in the countryside. So every time I went far away, my heart ached to remember the old place.

Also on that road, on hot sunny afternoons, my mother let me sit on her old bike and walked while my back was soaked with sweat.

Holding the saddle tightly, I swung my legs and looked out at the green countryside fields, the storks gently perched on the buffalo horns, listening to the chirping of birds hiding in the foliage.

I looked up at the blue sky, watching the clouds drift away. The car stopped in front of the house and I secretly regretted that the road home was so short. But I did not know that my mother's legs were already tired and blistered from the journey left behind.

Reed flower. Illustration photo

And on that road, every windy afternoon, my mother hugged bundles of reeds tightly to her body. I ran and jumped on the dike, climbed trees, picked fruits, and chased dragonflies. The tiny reeds fluttered in the wind, hiding in my mother's silver-streaked hair.

The afternoon sun flickered over her shoulders, and her small figure was hidden in the vast white reeds. She sat by the window sill, tenderly holding each reed woven into a broom. I sat behind her, plucking her gray hair, and the strands of gray hair kept falling one after another on the ground.

At that moment, I suddenly realized how merciless time is. Tears suddenly fell without me knowing. The tightly woven, neat brooms were carefully hung by my mother in the corner of the house, waiting for the morning when she would take them to the market to sell. My mother's country reed broom lit up a pure fairyland.

The old shore was covered with white reeds. Mother sat there regretfully, occasionally clicking her tongue, “That reed bank, bundled with more than ten brooms.” I looked at my mother’s long shadow on the threshold, time seemed to be engraved in the depths of my eyes. I walked with my mother on the old road again in the rushing wind season.

Mom talked a lot about the past. The stories never seemed to get old. The old roadside where Mom used to sell vegetables, now has a gas station. The old market corner where Mom used to hang her waiting gaze, now has a tall building.

The winding, rocky road of the past is now wide and straight. But why do I miss the old road so much, the rows of trees along the road, the herd of old buffalo leisurely walking on the fields and the scent of the early morning wind.

Still on that road, every day there is the figure of a mother and child picking up each piece of memory, keeping it forever in their hearts.

Another windy season has come, the girls next door are also learning how to make brooms. And in the distance, we see a little boy reaching out to pick the first reeds.

Tomorrow morning, when I take my mother to the market, I will see reed brooms hanging in some store.

Under the porch of the countryside house, I sit with my mother again, looking at the reeds covering the sky, blooming on me, branch after branch, filled with memories...

Source: https://danviet.vn/bong-say-thu-hoa-dai-cua-co-hoang-va-vat-trien-song-trong-gio-lanh-dau-mua-sao-lai-dep-den-the-20241219134755466.htm