Illustration (AI)
I sat behind the window looking out at the brick yard, wondering if the little bird that had just flown across the sky would make it back to its nest before the rain came. The strong smell of the rain-soaked earth awakened many old familiarities, gently peeling off each piece of memory and placing it gently in my heart. When I sat silently watching the curtain of rain hanging outside the window, it was also the moment when a rain poured down from the distant past. In that moment, the image of my mother always filled my mind . I remembered my mother's eyes, vaguely looking out at the rainy porch like a thousand thin threads, I remembered the kitchen that had been soaked with smoke for decades, mingling with my mother's shadow, under the roof tiles that were soaked with moss.
Is the first rain of the season endlessly telling stories from the past? The rain reminds me of a time when the whole village went through a drought, the ground cracked like crow's feet, on the barren fields with dry mud and bare stubble. The thin rice stalks withered and bent under the scorching sun, forever only able to bloom in a missed dream. The sky turned into a red-hot coal furnace, radiating heat down to the fields like a wrinkled face, with dark circles and deep eye sockets. The shadow of my father sitting on the steps was as quiet as a cloud, hiding his sigh in cups of tea that suddenly became bitter. Every afternoon in the golden color of the drought, my mother often went to the back porch and looked up at the sky, was it to let her tears silently flow back inside? Everyone's heart ached for a rain to erase all the dryness and desolation.
Then came the day of rain after endless anticipation and waiting. Mother said it was the first rain of the season. The precious drops of water seemed to rejoice with the children calling out and laughing loudly, rushing out to the front yard. The villagers were bustling about, carrying jars to catch water, their eyes lighting up with hope, like soft rays of sunlight filtering through the rain. Each flower bud and leaf cluster swayed in a joyful dance, washing themselves in the drops of water imbued with the scent of the homeland. The fields were peaceful amidst the silvery white rain covering the fields and banks. Each square of land was happily watered, promising a season of sweet fruits and flowers nourishing the homeland.
I have been through countless rains in my life. The rains of my youth were filled with clear laughter, overflowing to send the drought season away. The rains interwoven with the purple color of the Lagerstroemia, soaked the sky of the Royal Poinciana, holding the shy petals nestled in the dreams of my school days. Then the rains in distant foreign lands, the mist of the city and the tall buildings, silently calling out so much longing like migratory wings singing a sad melody of a faraway land. The rain is still the same, only I have changed between each stage of gain and loss, success and failure. There are moments when looking at the flying rain, my heart is swaying with many deep personal feelings. Realizing that there is no greater happiness than having a porch for me to take shelter in the rain, holding my mother's hand so that the warmth permeates every inch of my heart, listening to the first rain of the season whispering outside the empty porch. And there is no loneliness like getting lost in the rain in the middle of a strange city, longing for a home kitchen with a gentle fire at the end of the road home.
The first rain of the season suddenly comes and goes. The heels of summer slowly pass through the windy porch. The slanted afternoon light reflects the silhouette of someone sitting and thinking, perhaps cherishing each piece of endless nostalgia?./.
Tran Van Thien
Source: https://baolongan.vn/mua-dau-mua-tham-goi-ngay-xua-a196198.html
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