There are seasons of gratitude

The rain also cooled the sweltering heat after the harvest days, making the dirt roads leading to the fields suddenly softer. And so, every year, when the first rain of the season fell, my mother would remind me: "It's almost time to burn incense for my grandfather."

That day - July 27 - did not evoke anything significant when I was a child. I only knew that it was the day when the whole neighborhood gathered to go to the cemetery nestled on the hillside at the end of the village. I still remember clearly the feeling of my mother's hand holding mine tightly as we walked through the dewy weeds, the other hand holding a bunch of lilies still sticky with sap. Children like me were only excited because after visiting the grave, we would definitely be given a candy or a cake to put in our shirt pocket as a reward for being good.

At that time, I did not understand anything about the word “martyr”. I only remembered that my grandfather, whom I had never met, was lying in one of the graves on the hill. His name was engraved on the stone stele, his hometown was still clear, but the year of his death was covered with moss. My grandmother often sat for a long time in front of the stele, stroking the reeds growing alone beside her. One year, there was a heavy rain, the road was slippery, she fell, but she still struggled to hold on to her cane, just to be able to go up the hill to burn incense.

When I grew up a little more, I understood why my mother always told me to go with her. She said: "So that you remember that you still owe me a thank you." It turns out that the peace I breathe, the way I go to school, the way I grow up peacefully - are all thanks to those who have passed away. Those young people that year left with a promise to return, but the promise only remains in the memories of those who stayed behind.

Youth Union members of Tan Ninh ward ( Tay Ninh province) respectfully offer incense to commemorate heroic martyrs (Photo: To Tuan)

On the afternoon of July 27, when the city lights were on, in my neighborhood, young men in green shirts volunteered to carry bamboo torches and walk through each small alley, knocking on each door, inviting the elderly to attend the martyrs' memorial service. Everyone's shirts were soaked with sweat, their hands were blackened by the torch smoke, but their eyes were sparkling. In the flickering firelight, I heard the village chief tell stories of the days of marching, stories of rice mixed with corn, stories of wounds that were not bandaged in time and blood stained their uniforms. I heard the stories over and over again, every year, but they never got old.

Nowadays, the streets change very quickly. At the beginning of my village, the dirt road of years ago has been paved with smooth concrete. The old tin-roofed houses have been replaced with bright red tiled roofs, and motorbikes are parked close together. But every July, the grateful footsteps are still there. The martyrs' cemetery still lies humbly on the hill, still a place for people like my mother, my grandmother and my generation - bringing their children - to express a silent promise: We will not forget.

One year I returned home late, on the night of July 27, the cemetery was deserted, with only a few red incense sticks left. I sat down next to my grandfather’s grave, absentmindedly picking weeds around the tombstone, my heart suddenly warmed by the lingering scent of incense. I thought, no matter how busy we are, we will find our way back. Maybe not on the same day, not at the same time, but if there is incense, there will be someone who remembers. Gratitude, sometimes that’s all it takes.

And for me, gratitude is also to remind myself to live a life worthy of the life they left behind in the land. To help me understand that every meal, every step, every laugh - is not only mine, but also that of those who have not yet returned.

July 27 is not a festival day, there are no brilliant fireworks, and there are no lively songs. It is a day of incense sticks with billowing smoke, of the scent of chrysanthemums and pure white lilies. It is a day of old people with trembling hands folding incense sticks, of children staring blankly at the rows of steles with missing names, of young people silently bowing their heads before the steles darkened by time. It is a day when memories are wrapped up and passed from one person to another, without any fuss but still full.

Tomorrow, the day after, and then July will pass, the rain will stop, the sun will rise and the streets will be bustling again as if no rain had ever come. But in my small village, there will still be a silent hill, a cemetery nestled in the casuarinas, there will still be hastily placed incense sticks, burning red in the afternoon wind. And I believe, whether 50 years or 100 years from now, there will still be soundless footsteps, unspoken prayers - but warmer than any song of gratitude.

There is a season of gratitude like that, quiet, persistent, permeating the land, into people. And it will never disappear./.

Duc Anh

Source: https://baotayninh.vn/co-nhung-mua-tri-an-a192390.html