[E-Magazine]: A Silent Shoulder

How long has it been since you last visited your father? Go home, be with him, and feel the most secure and peaceful place in the world before time sweeps away those cherished memories. We often only realize the true value of a shoulder to lean on, a glance, when everything has become a memory. At that point, even the bitterest tears can't fill the empty spaces...

1. Have you ever wondered where a sense of stability can come from? For me, I found that stability on my father's shoulders, like an ancient tree rooted deep in the earth, standing tall and sheltering me through countless storms. My father, a man of few words with rough hands, was strong enough to support my entire life. I grew up, but his eyes were filled with thoughts, like the sedimentary veins of ancient rocks, telling of countless worries he never complained about. In that memory, I see myself as a small boat, drifting on the vast ocean, and the lighthouse guiding me is my father's shadow, persistent and never fading. I remember those twilight afternoons, the last rays of sunlight lingering on my father's hunched back as he sat on the porch, meticulously repairing the bicycle I had just broken while playing around. Those grease stains not only clung to my father's hands but also left a deep mark on my young mind whenever I made a mistake.

I can never forget that early morning, when I was 10 years old, following my father to the fields to irrigate the land during the drought. Morning mist hung over the fields, a cool breeze rustled through the dry rice stalks, carrying the scent of freshly tilled earth and the faint fragrance of alluvial soil. I struggled with the bucket, my hands still weak, unable to draw water properly. Then the bucket slipped from my grasp and fell into the ditch. I froze, disappointment overwhelming me as I watched it sink. Hearing the noise, my father rushed over. His shadow stretched long across the ground, moving so fast I felt he was like a gust of wind. He knelt down and plunged his hand into the cold water, searching for the bucket. His hands were calloused, but at that moment, I found them strangely strong. He leaned close to my ear, whispering softly, his voice deep, warm, and steady, louder than thunder: "Calm down, son. Everything will be alright." He picked up the bucket and placed it in my hand, his eyes shining with boundless hope. My father didn't scold me; he just quietly took my hand and guided me through each step of scooping water. That morning, the road from the fields to home seemed shorter.

2. I still see the image of my father sitting thoughtfully beside his morning tea, his eyes gazing distantly out at the empty courtyard. The lines on his forehead, evidence of countless sleepless nights, of the times he stayed awake worrying about our future. Whenever I stumbled, he didn't rush to help me up, but let me stand on my own, his eyes watching, shining with the belief that I could do it. Then he fell ill. It was an afternoon in early November, a persistent drizzle followed by a chilly north wind. He had just returned from the factory, his faded coat not warm enough, his whole body trembling. That evening, he coughed violently, his voice hoarse, his eyes tired but still trying to maintain a calm demeanor. My mother was away, and my siblings and I were too young to fully understand our father's exhaustion. I sat beside his bed, my small hand touching his arm, feeling the veins bulging.

I was extremely worried, but I didn't dare cry. Suddenly, my father gently opened his eyes. His eyes were sunken and tired, but he still tried to look at me. He reached out and tremblingly stroked my hair. A faint smile appeared on his lips, as resilient as a candle in the wind. "Don't worry, son. I'm alright..." His voice was weak and broken, but it dispelled the fear that was engulfing me. The next morning, although still tired, my father tried to get up. I saw him silently go into the kitchen to cook a pot of hot ginger porridge, then busily prepare his things for work. His legs were still trembling, but each step was steady. He didn't want us to see him weak, didn't want his work to be missed. In that moment, I understood that a father's love is not only a gentle spring, but also a solid, immortal, unwavering, and silent rock, even when his body is battling illness.

3. Now that I'm grown up and facing life on my own, I understand even more. Every decision I make, every success I achieve, has my father's presence behind it, silently supporting and guiding me. He's not a dazzling lamp illuminating my path; he's a sturdy, enduring mountain, enough for me to lean on when I'm tired, enough for me to find support when I'm lost. Once, my impulsiveness was like a deep cut into my father's hopes, an invisible wound that weighed more heavily than any reprimand. That was the year I failed my university entrance exam, the first shock of my life that left me disheartened and wanting to give up everything. That night, the house was silent. I sat huddled in my room, waiting for a reproach or a look of disappointment. My heart pounded as if it would burst.

Then the door to the room creaked open. Father entered, without a sound. I looked up and saw the sadness in his eyes, but no tears rolled down. He didn't scold or offer empty comfort; he simply sat down beside me. He reached out and gently placed his hand on my shoulder. His hand was rough, but at that moment, I felt it transmit an invisible energy to me. Then he spoke, his voice deep, warm, and slow: "Son, one door closes, but many others open. The important thing is whether you dare to stand up and move forward." I buried my face in his hands, tears streaming down and soaking his shirt. I sobbed, as if wanting to release all my weakness and self-doubt. Father said nothing more, only silently tightened his grip on my shoulder, each squeeze steady and strong, as if giving strength to a struggling child. The next morning, when I woke up, Father had already gone to work. On my desk was a book about people who had failed but didn't give up, and a small note: "Dad believes you can do it. Get up and keep going!" At that moment, I understood that my father's silence was worth more than a thousand words of advice. His firm grip on my shoulder, his unwavering gaze, and that small note—all were proof of his unconditional belief, an encouragement that needed no fanfare.

Time is an endless flow, relentlessly draining away my father's strength, etching wrinkles on his face, and turning his hair gray day by day. But a father's love is eternal, like the full moon hanging in the sky, illuminating the soul of every child.

How long has it been since you last visited your father, since you last sat beside him and listened to his life stories? Since you last held his hand, feeling its calluses and the warmth of his sacrifices? Go home, be with your father – and feel the most stable and peaceful feeling in the world, before time sweeps away those cherished memories. Because we often only realize the true value of a shoulder to lean on, a trusting gaze, when everything has become a memory. And then, even the bitterest tears can't fill the empty spaces...

Content: Luong Dinh Khoa

Photo: Internet source

Graphics: Mai Huyen

Source: https://baothanhhoa.vn/e-magazine-lang-le-mot-bo-vai-259826.htm