Summer of childhood

Back then, I was a skinny, barefoot child running under the scorching sun on the vast red basalt slopes of the Central Highlands. My childhood summers had no cakes, ice cream, or fancy toys, only days spent braving the sun and rain, playing marbles and hopscotch barefoot; days of carefree wandering, letting my mind wander among a basket of boiled cassava, a cool cave, or the rattling sound of a drum made from an empty condensed milk can...

My world revolved around that small village, a place I could probably visit throughout my entire childhood and still not see the end of. It was that simple; my friends and I could laugh and have fun all summer long.

As I grew older, my summers were filled with misty mornings, carrying water from the stream back home; barefoot days in the forest, my face sunburned; and days spent with my mother in the fields, carrying sacks of fertilizer heavier than myself, my back drenched in sweat, yet still singing Bahnar folk songs. No one told me about the hardships; I only felt them in the ragged breaths of my father returning from the forest, in the silent eyes of my mother as she endured the long, rainy days.

There were also summer days when I cycled dozens of kilometers along rough dirt roads to the district center to sell the wild vegetables I had just picked. My skin was tanned, my hair was sun-scorched, but only my eyes still shone brightly as I counted each small coin I earned, as if gathering my small dream within my grasp.

And so, the seasons of flamboyant blossoms quietly passed by. I was accepted into university, the first in my village to leave home for the city to study, my heart filled with excitement but also apprehension. Hanoi appeared like a dream, with its tall buildings, luxurious urban areas, and bustling traffic… I carried with me the sunshine and wind of the Central Highlands, conquering the lecture halls step by step, hoping one day to return and rebuild a home for my parents amidst the deep green forests.

Now, every time summer arrives, my heart aches. The highland village of those days has changed; there are paved roads, electricity, and spacious houses... Yet, the flame trees still bloom brightly, and the cicadas still sing throughout the summer, evoking countless memories of the past.

Every time I return to the village, I show my son the slippery slope, the family's coffee plantation, and the small stream where I used to spend entire afternoons. I also tell him about a difficult time, where his father grew up amidst the sun and wind, from the barren red soil, but whose love for the village never faded—the place that nurtured a heart capable of dreaming, remembering, and being grateful to grow into adulthood.

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