Neo returns to his hometown.

My house was nestled amidst a betel nut garden, its low tiled roof seeming to bow its head before the mountain. The walls were made of mud mixed with straw; in the rainy season, water seeped through, leaving streaks of dirt, and in the dry season, they cracked like hair. But it was the first place where I knew the warmth of family, where simple meals were shared, yet filled with the deep affection of kinship.

My mother was incredibly gentle and patient. Every morning she would go to the garden before dusk, meticulously watering each row of vegetables and shaking off the cabbage leaves that had been eaten by insects. At noon, she would sleep little, often fanning me while I studied, murmuring as she counted the few coins she earned from selling vegetables early in the morning. How could I forget the daily ferry crossings my mother made, toiling away selling goods to raise my siblings and me?

My childhood wasn't filled with many toys. What I played with every day was the sand by the river, the kites my father made from cement paper, and the faint sound of a bamboo flute blown against the wind.

I don't remember when I first felt sadness. Maybe it was one winter afternoon, when my father's flock of ducks was swept away by the floodwaters, and he sat silently all afternoon without saying a word. Later, every time I returned to my hometown and stood by the riverbank, recalling my father's image from that time, sitting by the flickering oil lamp, chopping young mulberry leaves for the silkworms to eat at night, my heart ached, and I couldn't hold back my tears.

In my dream, I saw myself flying high, looking down at the small village that fit in the palm of my hand, and the shimmering river like a ribbon draped across my memories. But when I woke up, I was just a child sitting with my knees hugged to my chest, peeking through the crack in the door, listening to the wind whistling through the bamboo grove like a threatening whisper.

The older I get, the more I understand that the dream of flying won't save me from this earth. Only memories, whether painful or gentle, remain to remind me that I once passed through that place, lived there, laughed, and cried with my village.

Each person's life is a river, and every river has a source. I've carried this sentiment throughout my years of wandering, especially as it constantly lingers in my later works like a curse: My source is my father, a village school teacher, a man of few words, but full of profound wisdom. It's my mother, a poor woman whose hair turned white before I was even born. It's the sound of cicadas at the beginning of summer, the smell of muddy well water after the rain, the shadow of bamboo leaning over the white pages of my school notebooks in my childhood, the Vu Gia River with its banks eroding and building up, surrounded by mountains on three sides and lush greenery on all four sides…

Each person has a different way of "returning to their roots," through the memories and nostalgia of their childhood that they once lived through and carried with them throughout their lives. Years later, living in the city, passing by tall buildings, seeing my reflection in unfamiliar glass, I still sometimes hear the gentle sound of oars splashing in the early morning. It is then that I realize I have never truly left this place: "That village left with me / but I didn't know it / Only the river of my homeland, the shadow of the mountains, flickers in the verses / I once lived in the village / Now the village lives in me"...

Source: https://baoquangnam.vn/neo-lai-que-nha-3157185.html