Summer of childhood

Back then, I was a skinny kid, running barefoot in the scorching sun on the vast red basalt soil of the Central Highlands. My childhood summers had no cakes, ice cream or fancy toys, but only days of braving the sun and rain, barefoot playing with bamboo sticks, playing marbles, and shooting marbles; days of free roaming, letting my soul wander in a basket of boiled cassava, a cool cave or the sound of a drum made from an empty milk can...

My world revolved around the small village that I probably would have spent my entire childhood in. Just that simple, my friends and I were able to laugh all summer long.

When I grew up a little more, my summer was filled with dewy mornings, carrying water from the stream back home; with bare feet in the forest, my face sunburned; with my mother going to the fields, carrying bags of fertilizer heavier than a person, sweat soaking my back but still humming Bahnar folk songs. No one told me about the hardships, I only felt it in my father’s ragged breathing when he returned from the forest, in my mother’s silent eyes when she went through a series of long rainy days.

There were also summer days when I cycled dozens of kilometers on bumpy dirt roads to the district center to sell the wild vegetables I had just picked. My skin was dark, my hair was sunburned, but my eyes still sparkled when I counted each small coin I earned, as if gathering a small dream within reach.

And so, the seasons of royal poinciana flowers quietly passed. I was admitted to university, the first person in the village to leave the countryside to study in the city, full of excitement and bewilderment. Hanoi appeared like a dream, with tall buildings, luxurious urban areas, crowded traffic… I brought with me the sunshine and wind of the Central Highlands, step by step conquering the lecture halls in the hope of one day returning to rebuild a roof for my parents in the middle of the deep green jungle.

Now, every time the summer sun comes, I feel my heart tighten. The highland village of that time has changed, there are paved roads, electricity, and well-built houses... However, the wild royal poinciana flowers are still bright red, the cicadas still ring throughout the summer, evoking in me so many memories of those years.

Every time I return to the village, I show my son the slippery slope, the family coffee plantation, the small stream where I used to bathe all afternoon. I also tell him about a difficult time, where his father grew up in the sun and wind, on the dry red soil, but in his heart he never lost his love for the village - the place that nurtured a heart that knew how to dream, remember and be grateful to grow up.

Source: https://baogialai.com.vn/mua-he-tuoi-tho-post328688.html