Autumn, remembering my father.

One day at the end of August, my family traveled nearly 100km back to our hometown – the place with our old house and unforgettable memories. Every year, during the National Day holiday on September 2nd, we return as a matter of habit.

The old house remained the same, but moss had covered it with the patina of time. On the porch was a wooden table and chairs where my sisters and I used to sit and listen to our father tell stories whenever we came home. The scent of incense permeated the air, wafting from the altar where my father's portrait lay. I stepped into the altar room, bowing slightly to greet my father as a habit, but my heart ached. His eyes in the photograph were still gentle and kind, but now I could no longer run to hug him and ask him to tell stories like I did in my childhood.

Entering the house, I reached for the old radio and turned it on. The melancholic song "Mother" by composer Phan Long filled the air. The poignant lyrics—"My father spent his whole life in the army / His gift to my mother was his graying hair / And the wounds on his chest / They ache intensely whenever the wind changes..."—made me miss my father very much.

My father, a soldier returning from the battlefield, carried both physical scars and emotional wounds. He lived a simple, quiet life, yet one filled with resilience. He often taught us that living a good life is a way of showing gratitude to the past, and for him, it meant living for all the comrades who sacrificed their lives and blood for the independence and freedom of our nation.

In my childhood, after each evening meal, my sisters and I would gather around to listen to our father tell stories of the battlefield. These stories were not only about the arduous marches, but also about camaraderie, moments of life and death, and the overwhelming joy when the red flag with a yellow star fluttered atop the Independence Palace...

The stories from the battlefield, recounted through my father's memories, came alive, resonating and spreading. My sisters and I—innocent children at the time—though we didn't fully understand the meaning of peace and freedom, felt a quiet pride growing in our hearts, like a seed sown from love for our country.

Two years ago, my father passed away. It was also an autumn day in August. But for me, he never truly left. He lives on in my memories, in every story, every lesson he left me. His teachings about gratitude, sacrifice, the value of peace, and his admonition: "Live for those who have fallen" have stayed with me throughout my life.

VA

Source: https://baodongnai.com.vn/dong-nai-cuoi-tuan/202508/mua-thu-nho-cha-d9310fe/