Father and August

My father is eighty years old this year. Eighty years with many changes in the world and people's hearts. But in my memory, my father is always the thin, steadfast soldier of yesteryear, with deep eyes that seemed to contain many thoughts.

My father married my mother, then packed his backpack and joined the army, leaving his young wife alone in a simple house. My mother stayed behind, shouldering the whole family, taking care of my grandparents, shouldering all the responsibilities, love, duty and sadness. For ten long years, my mother waited for my father in loneliness because they had not yet had any children, yet she did not complain, just silently waited.

I heard my mother tell me that one time my father was on leave and returned home looking gaunt, but his eyes were filled with happiness and emotion when he knew that my mother was still waiting for him after so many years of separation. My father had no gift, only a small doll he had bought on the road. He gave it to my mother and said: “Hold it while you sleep to ease your sadness…” My mother smiled, tears welling up in her eyes. Who would have thought that the following year, my mother would become pregnant – a surprise gift after a long and seemingly hopeless wait…

I was born on a rainy night. Small, weak, weighing less than two kilos. The midwife sighed, and the villagers felt sympathy for me. Because I was so small, my mother wrapped me in a thin blanket, pressed me to her chest, and soothed me with a lullaby that was filled with happiness and hope. Every time my father came home on leave, he brought a small box of pork floss, a simple yet extremely precious gift. Thanks to those handfuls of pork floss, I grew up little by little, under my mother’s care and my father’s silent love.

I don’t have many memories of my father when I was a child, because he was always far away. But I clearly remember the figure of my father coming home on leave in the blazing midday sun, his worn-out floppy hat, his dusty army uniform. Every time he came home, in his bag there was always a box of dried pork floss, a few hard candies, and a loving look at my mother and me.

Now, when my father is old, his hair is white, his back is bent by the years, I love him even more. A devoted life without ever complaining, a father who did not say many words of love but every action was imbued with deep love.

This August, I sat next to my father, listening to him recount old stories. His voice was slow and warm. Age had covered his hands with age-related freckles. But his eyes were still bright, still filled with a very personal sadness of a life of experience, of love, of sacrifice, of waiting and of being waited for.

I held my father’s old hand, my heart wanting to say so many things but choking up. Thank you, father, for going through the years with all your love and responsibility. Thank you, father, for the fragrant boxes of meat floss that raised me with your wordless love. And thank you, August, for bringing my father back, back to my mother, to us, in the gentle autumn of that year.

Doan Hang

Source: https://baodongnai.com.vn/van-hoa/202507/cha-va-thang-tam-2112740/