Bow down and kiss your father's feet.

During a sermon, the monk explained that some deaths are a loss, while others are simply absences.

Illustration: DANG HONG QUAN

Dad's passing left our family with an irreplaceable void; it's an inevitable loss. But strangely, I don't need to do anything about that void because I often find solace in it, remembering how fortunate I was to be his child.

Exactly one year after my father passed away, I had a vivid dream. In my dream, he was as quiet as he always was, and as gentle as a wisp of smoke. That dream and his footsteps have never left my memory in the days and months that followed.

In his final days, my father lay in the intensive care unit, and I sat watching the IV drip and the monitor displaying his vital signs, occasionally bending down to kiss his helpless feet with a heavy heart. Those feet hadn't had to struggle for survival, yet fate seemed to burden him with long, sorrowful journeys.

My fourth aunt – my third sister – passed away, leaving behind a baby girl who was still breastfeeding. My father carried the baby around the neighborhood, begging for milk from women who had just given birth – he wasn't even ten years old then. Also, before he turned ten, my grandmother passed away, and my father's feet struggled to grip the ground as he continued his journey, having lost his mother at a young age.

In the years that followed, my father's feet walked alongside my grandfather's as they successively buried my father's other siblings who had passed away due to illness.

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Young people walked through days of bombs and artillery fire; what joy could their feet find? My father retreated to his oasis, his eyes and lips devoid of any smile; there was nothing left in life that could offer him lighthearted jokes.

When we were kids, my siblings and I were sometimes annoyed by Dad's tendency to step back. Back then, we always got scolded by Dad after arguments, even when it wasn't our fault.

My father's simple way of thinking was: "Starting a war" with a friend is a foolish thing to do, son. More than a meter of our garden land was encroached upon; the land plot diagram in the register looked like a mismatched map. We complained, and he said, "Just ignore it, son, they can't keep encroaching forever."

As I've grown older and gained more life experience, I've come to understand that what my siblings and I once thought was Dad's weakness was actually a sign of strength. Some men are strong in the sense of always confronting challenges and taking risks, but Dad chose to live his own life with a gentle, calm demeanor.

It takes strength to give up what rightfully belongs to you, it takes strength to compromise so that conflicts don't escalate. For me, life isn't about measuring wins and losses.

But those same feet always led my father to places of filial piety and to share with those in need. One day, hearing that my grandfather was ill, he cycled nearly 20 kilometers back to his hometown to bring him home to care for him, and he did the same when my maternal grandmother was nearing the end of her life. My father was never absent from the sickness, joys, or sorrows of his siblings, relatives, and friends.

Those are the kind, fragrant feet. My father's feet have never shied away from any difficulty to help his children when they were in trouble.

His feet trembled as he disembarked from the bus at the Da Lat bus station to pick up his playful, school-abandoned son. Those same feet had accompanied him on strolls along the riverbank… All that remained was his family.

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During the days my father was ill, I slowly bent down and kissed his feet, tears streaming down my face. I felt so much love for his feet, which he had always strived to keep clean, both literally and figuratively.

His feet quietly walked through life, carrying his own sorrows and possessing the wisdom that, while inevitably leading him to make mistakes, prevented him from spiraling downwards.

AN HIEN

Source: https://tuoitre.vn/cui-hon-ban-chan-cha-100260628114002064.htm