Remember the old brick courtyard?

Returning home after years of struggling abroad, I slowly walked through the gate with its arch of pink and purple bougainvillea flowers, my feet hesitating as they touched the moss-covered brick courtyard. A feeling of closeness, familiarity, and old affections suddenly flooded back, filling me with an indescribable emotion.

Since our parents passed away, my siblings and I have each pursued our own careers, rarely having the chance to gather and reunite. But the old house with its vast brick courtyard has been preserved as a memento, entrusted to my aunt and uncle for safekeeping. I followed my best friend to the Central Highlands, bathed in the sun and wind of the vast forests, to pursue my passion for growing and processing coffee. Whenever I feel weary from the demands of work and life, or when I feel lost and empty, I return to my hometown. Sitting on the steps, letting my bare feet touch the cool bricks, listening to the wind rustling through the fallen eggplant blossoms, memories flood back like a slow-motion film. The old brick courtyard has witnessed countless daily activities, joys, and sorrows of our family. On this very courtyard, I took my first tentative steps, filled with happiness and the cheers of my grandparents and parents. I remember those spring mornings, after a month of damp, drizzling rain, the golden sunlight filtering through the lush green leaves of the pomelo trees in front of the house. The air was light, cool, and fragrant with the scent of laurel blossoms. My grandfather carried his bamboo bed out into the yard, brewed a pot of fragrant tea, and invited the neighbors over to play chess. I remember those sun-drenched summer afternoons, the brick courtyard glowing with the warm, abundant yellow of rice and corn, and filled with the sweet aroma of fresh straw cut from the fields. My grandmother sat swaying in a hammock by the window, carefully preparing the sticky rice straw for my grandfather to make brooms, gazing out at the glistening rice in the yard, her smile radiant. I remember those moonlit nights, the cool breeze from the river in front of the house, the neighborhood children gathering in my yard, playing hide-and-seek and dragon-snake games. Sometimes, my sisters and I would spread mats out in the yard, lie on our backs, and count the stars, gazing at the Milky Way. As night deepened, the air grew quieter, so still you could hear the sound of a white jasmine flower falling from its branch and touching the damp, dew-covered courtyard. I remember the days of heavy rain, when the perch from the ponds and canals would come out into the yard. We would happily go for a rain shower, catch fish, and float paper boats on the water's bubbles. I remember the days at the end of December, with the drizzling rain and biting wind, the whole family gathered in the yard to wrap sticky rice cakes. Some washed the banana leaves, others prepared the beans, and still others split the bamboo strips, creating a lively and bustling atmosphere of anticipation for Tet. On the thirtieth night of Tet, a makeshift brick stove was set up in the corner of the yard, and logs of wood were lit, radiating warmth. We spread out our straw mats nearby, staying awake to watch over the pot of sticky rice cakes while playing cards, waiting for midnight.

From my humble home with its familiar brick courtyard, I left the village's bamboo hedges and traveled along many wide, open roads. New lands held so many interesting things. But the old brick courtyard will always remain a deeply ingrained part of my memory, drawing me back after the hustle and bustle of making a living.

Lam Hong

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