My mother would often be tearful the night before, urging me to be careful on my journey and to think things through before acting. What she feared most was the moment of departure; in front of me, everything seemed fine, we'd chat and laugh, but as soon as I turned my back, tears would wet my lips. The porch would become silent, and no matter how many vibrant yellow chrysanthemums bloomed or how heavily laden the kumquat branches were, they couldn't fill the void left by the absence of her children's laughter.
My travel bag contained a piece of my hometown. This box held a free-range chicken, that jar contained pickled pork belly, and a plastic bag was full of fruit freshly picked from the altar. There were also sticky rice cakes, a loaf of rice cake, a packet of sweet sticky rice, and a jar of braised fish. My mother carefully wrapped everything in plastic bags and taped the boxes shut. Everything was meticulously prepared, ensuring that everything would arrive in the city still fresh and delicious for me to enjoy. Besides the easily recognizable local delicacies, there was also the way of life, the accent of my hometown, and the very breath that had shaped me from the moment I was in my mother's womb until I was strong enough to spread my wings and fly. When I returned, my suitcase was light, packed with a few sets of clothes. When I left, my bag was heavy with small gifts and the heartfelt longing of those I would leave behind.
The baggage I pack contains promises to loved ones, unwavering determination to achieve my goals, and a wealth of dreams and plans for the future. It is for these reasons that each child must leave their homeland, unwilling to disappoint the expectations and trust of their family and themselves. A surge of energy for a new year begins. But it is also for this reason that the pressure weighs heavily on my shoulders. Though I long to remain a child, sheltered in my parents' embrace, I must choose to leave home to learn, strive, and grow. Besides, as my mother often said, few people can stay in one place their whole lives. "Go and see the world. Staying home with your mother, you'll never learn." I must try to venture out and explore, to discover other horizons that are just as beautiful as home.
Towards the end of the lunar year, I requested a few extra days off, lingering at home for a few more nights after Tet. My friends who got to stay for half a month or even until the end of the first lunar month were overjoyed. But it never seemed enough. I still longed to breathe in the cool, crisp spring air of my hometown, the sweet sunshine tinged with a gentle breeze. I imagined myself still sleeping in late in my familiar warm bed, awakened by the fragrant braised pork with eggs simmering in the kitchen while my mother stood watching. No meetings, no work deadlines, no overtime. No hustle and bustle of the daily grind. No rushing through a dozen traffic lights to get back to my rented room after work. I wished I were home with my mother and her golden-brown pancakes cooked in a cast-iron pan.
Since leaving home for school, I've felt like a wanderer. In the city, rented rooms are just temporary shelters, and day after day, month after month, time drags on, measured in years. Strangely, my permanent address back home is a place I have to count down by the hour and minute each time I return. Growing up and starting work hasn't changed much. Like my friends, even after getting married, buying houses and cars in the city, they still dream of returning home.
Perhaps, whether traveling in one direction or another, wandering for a year or even a lifetime, in the end, everyone wants to return to their roots. They will gather what they have and return.
Source: https://thanhnien.vn/nhan-dam-goi-ghem-thien-di-185260228154931258.htm
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