BPO - The sun set behind the tall buildings, its soft rays filtering through the windowpanes before fading away amidst the bustling streets. I stood silently by the window, watching the dark clouds gather, the wind rustling through the trembling trees in the small park at the end of the street. A summer rain was approaching. The first raindrops pattered on the tin roof, then the gentle patter echoed through the city like a familiar, old melody. In that sound and cool air, I felt myself drifting back to days long ago – to a place with my father, the smell of freshly harvested rice, a courtyard of golden bricks, and rainy seasons that not only soaked my clothes but also permeated my memories.
Back then, the brick courtyard of our house was scorching hot every summer. The red bricks underfoot burned, yet my father endured it, walking with steady steps, his bare feet turning over layers of fragrant golden rice. I sat on the porch, fanning myself with my straw hat to ward off the stifling heat, occasionally running out to add more rice, working breathlessly under the intense sun. My father smiled, his voice warm: "Just one more day and it'll be done. Don't worry if it rains tomorrow, my child."
Father finished his work and went inside to rest for a while. I looked at the golden rice grains glistening in the sun, smelled the gentle fragrance of the new rice, and felt very comfortable. Then suddenly, the sky darkened. Dark clouds appeared out of nowhere, covering the golden courtyard. I shouted, "It's going to rain! Father!" Father, who had been dozing off, suddenly sprang up like a spring, grabbed his familiar wooden rake, and rushed out into the yard. I followed, holding a bamboo broom, running and worrying about the sudden arrival of the rain.
The sounds of rakes, brooms, and shouts of people gathering rice echoed throughout the village. Hands moved swiftly, feet hurried across the yard, and everyone's eyes anxiously gazed up at the sky. Fortunately, the sky seemed to take pity on us, to understand the hardships of the farmers, and only began to rain after the last sack of rice was safely brought into the house. The rain poured down relentlessly on the brick yard. My father and I stood there, our clothes soaked with sweat, our hair matted, breathing heavily, yet we still managed a sigh of relief. That smile was like a long breath released after so many tense moments…
The rain stopped, the sky cleared, and the sun came out again. And then, a rainbow appeared. My father looked up at the sky, pointing towards the brilliant light, his voice low but full of confidence: "See, after the rain, the sun shines again. Whatever you do, as long as you try, heaven will not let you down." In that peaceful setting, I listened to my father tell stories about rice grains, about the sweat that soaked into the earth to provide a full meal during times of scarcity...
“You must remember, farming doesn’t allow laziness. You have to make the most of every hour of sunshine, every rain shower. Each grain of rice is the sweat and the year-long wait of the farmer, my child.” At the time, I simply thought, “Dad’s just repeating the same old things.” I didn’t fully understand the weight of the “sweat” he was talking about, the worries and anxieties contained within that “year-long wait.” But after leaving the countryside, growing up, and facing life’s challenges, those teachings became profound and deeply meaningful. They were not just lessons about labor, but also lessons about life itself: that no achievement comes from luck, but only from hands that tirelessly cultivate, endure hardship, and a heart that is always patient.
My father is old now. His once thick, black hair has turned white. The yard no longer holds as much rice as before, because the fields have been leased to others. But every time it rains heavily, I feel as if I see the hurried, hardworking figure of my father from years past.
My father's lessons weren't taught through words, but through his actions, through his calloused hands, through his back bent over the years. Now, in the bustling city, I often think of him, of the courtyard with its golden rice paddies under the sun. That place held not only rice, sunshine, and rain, but also my childhood – simple, warm, and full of love. And more than anything, a quiet, devoted father, always a shelter for me whenever life's storms arose.
Hello, dear viewers! Season 4, themed "Father," officially launches on December 27, 2024, across four media platforms and digital infrastructures of Binh Phuoc Radio and Television and Newspaper (BPTV), promising to bring to the public the wonderful values of sacred and beautiful fatherly love. |
Source: https://baobinhphuoc.com.vn/news/19/173793/khoang-san-thoc-vang-cua-cha
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