Missing the pond of water after summer

Illustration photo (AI)

In October, the golden sunshine spreads like honey across the autumn sky. In the city, I long for my hometown, for the evening meal with the fragrant smell of smoke from the kitchen under the thatched roof of the countryside, for the figure of my parents by the water jar in the backyard.

I was born and raised in the marshy plains. My childhood was filled with beautiful days with kites full of wind, giving wings to dreams that flew high and far; it was filled with nights with a firefly lantern that was once filled with nostalgia. Among those beautiful childhood memories, the image of the pond in the summer cannot fade from my mind even though I have passed half of my life.

I wonder if when we grow up, we often remember old things, things that belong to the past that my mother always mentions with the two words "back then". How heartbreaking it sounds! Back then, the water jar was chosen by my mother to be placed right near the kitchen door for the convenience of daily meals. It was only a few steps away. Although short, the number of times my mother passed by was the same number of times she put all her love into each family meal. The sound of my mother's footsteps on the old ground revealed a shiny, dark surface of the black soil of the swampy land. The soil that I remember, I love as if I had been away from home for a long time and wanted to return immediately to be with my mother in the kitchen, leaning on her thin shoulder, feeling the warmth of love, walking barefoot with my mother on the old ground with the scent of dried mud through many seasons of rain and sun.

Deep in my mind, the pond behind the summer appears simply with so many meanings of family affection, where there is the meticulousness of the father, the diligence of the mother and the boundless love of parents for their young children. I remember the days when I was a child, after school, my mother would tell me to go behind the pond to bathe and then come in to eat. The gentle sunset sunlight shimmered with pale yellow light as if through the cool stream from the ladle that my mother poured gently on me, reflecting my mother's happy smile when her children grew up peacefully day by day. The rustling sound of the wind on the bamboo tops outside the fence combined with the sound of flowing water like playing a joyful song to close a peaceful day that passed gently...

Then my sisters and I grew up, my father's figure became thinner over the years, his cheeks were also marked by the wind and rain of life with his hair mixed with white frost. The water jar was still there and the sturdy bamboo sticks that my father had woven into the grate had rotted over time. Gray spots gradually appeared instead of the original green patches, and some bamboo sticks had a few tiny mushrooms growing on the sides, signaling that it was time to replace the water jar. In the cool afternoons, my father would take his machete to the fence and choose straight old bamboo trees to split the bamboo strips to make the grate. Every time the rainy and sunny season passed, my father would carefully check my mother's water jar. Just that alone was enough to understand my father's love for my mother like in the beginning.

The day I changed the water jar, I was happy because I could comfortably bathe with all kinds of games like splashing water on my second sister, using a coconut shell to spin the water in circles in the jar for fun. But not long after, the day came when my second sister got married, leaving behind her hometown with her parents, me and the water jar in the backyard. At night, like every other night, outside the water pot made the sound of the water heater making the dew, my mother tossed and turned, having trouble sleeping, worrying about my sister's wedding. A married daughter is someone else's child.

Then one afternoon, also on the water jar behind the summer, Mom sat picking out each soapberry fruit to boil water to wash her sister’s hair before the wedding. Each ladle of soapberry water that Mom washed on her sister’s long, silky black hair was like a promise of a lifetime of happiness when she got married. Mom missed her second sister, she missed the times she boiled soapberry water to wash her hair. And Mom remembered that her own daughter, her grandmother, also boiled soapberry water to wash her hair…

The two seasons of sun and rain in the South slowly passed by, the water jar was still there, the only difference was that there was a trellis of gourds to provide fruit for eating and shade for my mother to wash vegetables, prepare fish and cook rice when the sun was hot. I still remember clearly the moments of those old days with each ray of early morning sunlight as if waking up the dawn, inviting bees and butterflies to fly around on the white and yellow flower petals, together playing a song to welcome a new peaceful day.

Then I grew up, left my hometown to study in the city, wandered far and wide, leaving my parents behind in their hometown and the water jar in the backyard. Every time the weather changed, did my mother have time to pick some leaves to steam next to the water jar to relieve colds? Did my father's hands, calloused by the years, still have enough strength to cut bamboo to split into strips to make a new water jar for my mother? I wonder if my second sister took the bus to visit my parents? Thinking about that, my heart ached. I wanted to run as fast as possible to return to my parents' hometown.

After decades of ups and downs in life, my parents have grown old. The old water jar is now just a memory of my childhood. I silently thank my parents for giving me a beautiful memory of my childhood./.

Thi Hoang Khiem

Source: https://baolongan.vn/nho-thuong-ang-nuoc-sau-he-a205091.html