Teachers also seemed to be more relaxed, and classes became leisurely. The feeling of excitement and melancholy crept into every corner of our souls. We, the final year students, began to clearly feel the approaching separation, although we still joked with each other, “It’s still a long way to go before graduation.”
The summer of that last year was not like the previous summers. There were no longer plans for long outings, no longer afternoons spent lying on the schoolyard benches amidst the deafening sound of cicadas. The last summer was filled with days of studying hard under the blazing heat, with nights staying up late to study with a whirring fan, with hasty hugs to say goodbye after class. Everything was urgent and hurried, as if everyone was afraid of losing something that they couldn’t name.
I remember the last afternoon before the graduation exam, we sat together under the row of old royal poinciana trees in full red. One of us thought absentmindedly: "Maybe this is the last time we sit together like this". The whole group was silent. Suddenly, the sound of cicadas sounded more mournful than usual. The summer of farewells, the summer of unfinished sentences, of looking at each other without being able to say everything we wanted to say.
Some of us burst into tears. Perhaps it was because of regret, because we were afraid of the future, because we didn’t dare to face the fact that tomorrow we would each go our separate ways, each with our own life. We didn’t make any promises, just silently recorded each other’s images with hasty photos, hastily written words on the white shirt. The white shirt on the day of parting was no longer pristine, but was stained with blue, red, black pen strokes… like a whole school time recorded on a fragile piece of fabric.
Then the exams passed, followed by the school year. Close friends gradually parted ways, some went to Saigon, some to Hanoi , some went to vocational school, some chose to stay. Each person gradually had their own interests, their own routines. Although the old group of friends were still on social media, messages became less frequent, calls became shorter and the rare meetings gradually became a luxury.
Sometimes, I still dream about that summer. I dream about the sound of cicadas, the laughter in the school yard, the gentle eyes of teachers looking at the final year students. I dream about us sitting crowded in a cramped classroom, sweating but still chattering non-stop about the future. The last summer was not the most beautiful summer, but it was the time most deeply engraved in my memory.
Now, every time I hear the sound of cicadas, my heart suddenly tightens. I am no longer as eager to welcome summer as before, but instead feel regretful for something that has been lost. In the following summers, no matter where I go or what I do, I cannot return to the innocent, clumsy feeling of that last summer. Youth is like a shower, it comes quickly and goes quickly. Only those who have been drenched in that rain can understand how precious it is.
If I could go back to a day in that summer, I would not choose the day I received my diploma, nor the grand farewell ceremony. I would choose a normal afternoon, when we all sat under the royal poinciana trees, only talking about random but sincere things, laughing loudly throughout the schoolyard and forgetting that we were about to grow up.
The last summer is a beautiful punctuation mark that closes a chapter of youth. And in everyone's heart, there is probably a summer like that, that can never be repeated.
Source: https://baogialai.com.vn/mua-he-cuoi-cung-post326189.html
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