Father and August

My father is eighty years old this year. Eighty years have brought so many changes to the world and to people's hearts. But in my memory, he will always be the thin, resolute soldier of yesteryear, with deep eyes that seemed to hold many secrets.

My father married my mother, then packed his bags and left to join the army, leaving his young wife alone in their simple home. My mother stayed behind, shouldering the entire family, caring for my grandparents, bearing all the responsibilities, love, duties, and even sorrow. For ten long years, she waited for my father in loneliness because they never had children, yet she never complained, only silently waited.

I heard my mother tell the story of how my father once returned home on leave, looking thin and gaunt, but his eyes shone with happiness and emotion upon learning that my mother had waited for him after so many years apart. He brought no gifts, only a small doll he'd hastily bought on the way. He gave it to my mother and said, "Hold this doll while you sleep to ease your sadness…" My mother smiled, tears welling up in her eyes. Who would have thought that the following year, she would become pregnant – an unexpected gift after a long, seemingly hopeless wait…

I was born on a rainy night. Small, frail, weighing less than two kilograms. The midwife sighed, and the villagers felt sorry for me. Because I was so small, my mother wrapped me in a thin blanket, held me close to her chest, and soothed me with lullabies filled with happiness and hope. Whenever my father came home on leave, he would bring a small box of shredded pork, a simple yet incredibly precious gift. Thanks to those handfuls of shredded pork, I grew little by little, surrounded by my mother's care and my father's silent love.

I don't have many childhood memories of my father because he was always far away. But I clearly remember him returning home on leave at midday under the blazing sun, his worn-out bucket hat and his soldier's uniform covered in dust. Every time he came home, his bag always contained a box of dried shredded pork, a few hard candies, and a loving gaze for my mother and me.

Now that my father is old, his hair white, his back bent with age, I love him even more. A lifetime of dedication without a single complaint, a father who didn't express his love in many words, but every action was imbued with profound love.

This August, I sat beside my father, listening to him recount old stories. His voice was slow and warm. On his hands, age spots had thickened with time. But his eyes were still bright, still filled with a very personal sorrow of a life experienced, of love, of sacrifice, of waiting and being waited for.

I grasped my father's aged hand, my heart overflowing with unspoken words, yet choked with emotion. Thank you, Father, for enduring the years with all your love and responsibility. Thank you for those fragrant jars of pork floss that nurtured me with your unspoken fatherly love. And thank you, August, for bringing you back, back to Mother, back to us, in the gentle autumn of that year.

Doan Hang

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