(AI)
It was raining in the middle of summer. On the balcony, the magnolia flowers had bloomed.
I don't know why, but I feel a sense of calm whenever I watch the summer rain fall. The weather these days is unpredictable, sunny one moment, rainy the next. The sky is blue, the sun is shining brightly, then suddenly dark clouds gather, and rain blankets the path home. Summer is like life: sudden, unpredictable, stormy, yet also profound and contemplative…
But what I love most is watching the rain fall in midsummer. Midsummer rain is gentle, with a touch of the lingering softness of early summer rains, and also a hint of the fierce, hurried fall of autumn rain that I've experienced many times in a remote, misty mountain town. Having gone through countless scorching summers of my youth, and watched summer rain fall in different skies over the years, I see summer as a season of longing, a season of remembrance, a season brimming with memories, yet also steeped in sadness, separation, and brokenness that haunt me for a lifetime.
This month, it often rains. The rain patters softly on the temple porch on a morning when I awaken. The sound of the rain blends with the peaceful temple bells, echoing deep into the souls of those who have suffered much and often seek refuge under the temple roof to rediscover themselves. The rain falls lightly on the "phoenix-flying paths" of the city, lingering in the footsteps of students bidding farewell to their school days before embarking on a journey to a wider horizon. The persistent rain soaks the tattered clothes of countless people struggling to make a living, huddled under the cold rain that, in my youth, I thought was as romantic as a melody. The rain awakens in me the fragile dreams of my early life, quickly shattered in the swirling storms of life.
And so, rain is like tears, the sound of rain like a choked sob in a certain period of life amidst the countless existences of humanity...
I suddenly remembered that summer rain years ago when I wandered the mountain town with my mother. Back then, my mother was very young, although now, in my eyes, she's still not old. Those thoughts stemmed from a feeling of anxiety, a fear that people would grow old, that they would become dust and wind, and perhaps one day vanish into nothingness. The harsh reality is that with each passing rainy season, my mother grows one year older. That rainy season in the mountain town, under the eaves of a small house at the end of a slope where morning glory vines entwined the fence, my mother and I sat watching the water flowing on the road, carrying the pink hue of the red basalt soil and the fallen petals of wild sunflowers after a lifetime of dedication. I looked at my mother for a long, long time, counting each wrinkle on her kind face. I looked at the rain through a veil of tears. The summer rain in the mountain town was beautiful but sad, pattering on the roof but also full of contemplation, enough for one to look into it and see into their own heart. I sat counting on my fingers, muttering to myself, it's been a long time since that rainy season. Now, I wonder if the mountain town still remembers me? I wonder if the mountain town still remembers the mother and daughter who chose the rainy season to visit the mountain town, just to find the out-of-season wild sunflowers, the red basalt soil, and the sounds of the mountains echoing in the heart of the traveler...
In this mountain town now, does the rain feel the same as it used to?
This morning, a light drizzle fell on the balcony. I had barely opened my door when the fragrant scent of magnolia blossoms rushed in. Sometimes the magnolia tree in front of my house would bloom, but only a few blossoms would appear, hidden behind the leaves, then fade away in the late afternoon sunshine. I still waited for a moment in my life when I would see the magnolia blossoms in full bloom. I silently longed for the magnolia season throughout the sunny days. And then, the magnolia blossoms burst open again on a rainy morning. I followed the scent of the magnolia to the balcony, gazing at the tiny petals, the size of my little finger, slender and softly curved, not ostentatious but full of resilience. In the echoing sound of summer rain falling on the magnolia leaves, in the clear sky cleansed by the rain, I felt my heart purified and how kind life truly is. Sometimes, happiness comes from such simple, ordinary, yet surprisingly wonderful things!
I stood on the balcony, gazing out at the white curtain of rain. Suddenly, I turned around and saw the delicate magnolia blossoms dotting the path home…
Hoang Khanh Duy
Source: https://baolongan.vn/ngam-mua-ha-roi-a198116.html
