Have a season of wordless gratitude

I was born in a rural area with a martyrs’ cemetery on a sand dune. Every time the Lao wind blew, the sand flew up, covering the faded stone steles in white. When I was a child, I never understood why every afternoon at the end of July, my grandmother would take me on a walk of nearly two kilometers, climbing the sand dune, holding a bundle of incense and some lilies hastily picked from the garden.

She said, “Go visit your grandfather.” But I never saw him. All I saw was a stone tablet with an engraved name, a handful of green grass, and the wind. The wind blew the scent of incense into my hair, lingering on my clothes even when I got home.

Growing up and going to school, I heard more about the war, about the soldiers who never returned. I understood that the cold tombstone was the only meeting place for those who stayed behind with the deceased. It was the place where my grandmother could talk to me every year, whispering things she could not write in letters. It was the place where we, the grandchildren, learned to bow our heads, learned to say “thank you” even though we didn’t know who to say it to, because the person lying under the grass had passed away when my mother was still a newborn in her arms.

July 27, to many young people, may be just a small line on the wall calendar. But to my village, it was a special day. The whole village was silent. The dirt road leading to the cemetery seemed narrower, because there were so many people walking.

Some brought incense, flowers, some brought pots of green tea, sticky rice, bananas, and bottles of rice wine. There was no loud sound of trumpets or drums, nor was anyone shouting slogans. There was only the sound of footsteps, the sound of the ground crunching under sandals, and the sound of votive paper burning in the afternoon wind.

When I was a child, I asked my grandmother: “Why do we have to keep burning incense? He’s gone.” My grandmother sat down and folded the incense sticks, speaking slowly: “Still burning incense means still remembering. Still remembering that your grandfather is still here with me, with your mother, with you.” I looked at her blankly, not understanding. Now I understand, every time I come back from a long trip, standing before the grave lying silently under the casuarina tree, I still feel the warmth of my flesh and blood there.

July is not as noisy as the spring festival season. There are no fireworks or flags hanging everywhere. July only has the smell of incense, the smell of damp earth, the smell of newly cut grass, the sound of footsteps, the sound of rain falling on long nights. But it is that silence that penetrates people's hearts deeper than any flowery words. Those who lie down there have rested. But the things they left behind will not sleep.

It lives in the blood of descendants, in every house, every field, every street, every market corner. It lives in the way Vietnamese people preserve their memories - not loudly, not ostentatiously, but as persistently as tree sap seeping into the soil.

I have been to many martyrs’ cemeteries in all three regions. Truong Son Cemetery is as vast as an endless forest of white tombstones. Road 9 Cemetery, Quang Tri Citadel, Dien Bien Martyrs’ Cemetery…

Everywhere there is the same atmosphere: sacred and strangely familiar. There, I see mothers carrying flowers, see schoolboys diligently sweeping leaves, see old veterans with white hair still sitting silently for hours before their comrades’ graves. No one calls their names anymore, but there are still people wiping dust off the tombstones, replacing the wilted flowers, pulling out clumps of weeds. That is enough for the past to remain.

Nowadays, people talk a lot about the responsibility of gratitude. I see some pessimists saying that today's young generation only knows TikTok, Facebook... hardly anyone remembers July 27. But I don't believe that. I have seen union members, young people, and children wearing pure white shirts carefully kneeling down to light incense sticks, clasping their hands in front of nameless steles.

I have heard stories told during the “candle lighting of gratitude” night, the flame flickering in the wind but not extinguished, like a silent stream of memories transmitted. That seed of gratitude is still sown every year, growing with the child in the first lessons of life.

One year, I returned to my hometown on July 27. It had been raining since early morning, a persistent rain as if the sky and earth wanted to cry with me. Yet in the evening, the whole village still gathered to burn incense. Homemade torches made from bamboo, soaked in oil, flickered in the drizzling rain.

People quickly lit incense, covered the flame to prevent it from going out, then clasped their hands in silence. There was no shouting, only wind, incense smoke, and rain wetting their shoulders. I stood in the middle of the sand dune, watching my grandmother pray for something, then she gently stroked the tombstone, as if comforting a child far away from home who had never returned.

July - a season of wordless gratitude, not forcing anyone to cry, nor forcing anyone to chant slogans, but only gently tapping on memories, reminding us that we are standing on a part of our flesh and blood that has turned into land. From there, we learn to appreciate a warm meal, a laugh, a peaceful home without bombs and bullets. And from there, we learn to live a life worthy of those who have passed away.

Many years from now, I will be as old as my grandmother was. I will hold my children and grandchildren’s hands and walk on the dirt road leading to the sand dunes of the cemetery. I will tell them about a grandfather who has not yet returned, about the seasons of July 27th when the rain quietly falls, the wind blows, and the incense sticks flicker. I believe they will understand, as I understood when I grew up: To remember, to be grateful, means to still have each other, even though we are separated by a distance.

Somewhere in this land, July still comes. And there are incense sticks and white chrysanthemum bouquets that are still silently speaking the gratitude of millions of people.

DUC ANH

Source: https://baoapbac.vn/van-hoa-nghe-thuat/202507/co-mot-mua-tri-an-khong-loi-1047164/