Then there are people, scenes, and stories that seem to have faded into the distant past, dissolving like clouds in the sky or obscured by the dust of space and time... yet they live on forever in our minds. It seems that memory has categorized and stamped these images and recollections with a "permanent" seal, so that even without vows of eternal love, they remain deep within each person's heart, cherished, dear, and as close as breath.
Amidst the scattered memories and forgetfulness, in the vastness and wandering of life, the images of my grandparents and mother—those who have passed away forever—remain ever present, returning vividly and poignantly to my memory. When I was born, my paternal grandparents were no longer alive, but I was fortunate to have my maternal grandparents. I lived in the happiness of having them, receiving their love and protection throughout my childhood.
Our house wasn't far from my grandparents' house, but back then there were no means of transportation. Every time we went back to my maternal grandparents' village, my mother and I would walk. With a small basket in her hand, a white conical hat on her head, and a fitted blouse with skillful hand-sewn seams, my mother looked just like the women in literature: gentle, filial to her parents, and diligent and capable in managing the household. Even though she married far away, she would travel back to visit my parents a couple of times a month.
My siblings and I have been following our mother to visit our grandparents since we were three or five years old, so familiar that we know every road and every change in the scenery of the rice fields each year and each season. In January and February, the rice seedlings are mature, the fields are full of water; in March, the rice plants are young and lush green; in May, the fields are dry and the water recedes, the rice ripens to a golden yellow; in August, the torrential rains turn the countryside white with water; and in December, the drizzling rain and biting wind chill the entire dike to the bone.
Little did I know that the familiarity I sometimes considered boring was the origin of a deep, heartfelt love for my homeland. Only when I left did I realize that my childhood days spent in my motherland had become cherished memories, a source that nurtured profound feelings for my grandparents, parents, and the very land that had raised me.
Back then, whenever my mother and I visited my grandparents, as we approached the turnoff to the house, I would quickly run ahead, shouting, "Grandpa! Grandma!" before even reaching the yard. Usually, they would appear like fairy godmothers, but not from a fairytale mist, but from the kitchen or the pigsty or chicken coop. They would smile, happily opening their arms to welcome us. One child would hug their legs, another would cling to their hands, and my grandfather would lift one child high into the air, laughing heartily.
At that moment, my mother arrived, dropping the basket she was carrying. The basket usually contained a bunch of ripe bananas, a branch of green betel nuts, sometimes a packet of betel leaves or a dozen herring wrapped carefully in dried banana leaves. She would playfully scold my mother, saying, "Why buy so many things?", then fan each of us with her palm-leaf fan, smiling affectionately and tenderly.
My mother fanned herself with her hat to dry off the sweat, then leisurely told my grandparents stories about the family and the children's studies; she asked them if the boys had sent any letters home, when they would harvest the rice in the stream, and if the beans at the end of the lane were bearing too much fruit this year, and if the children and grandchildren could come and help pick them when they ripened...
He listened to our story, replied to my grandmother and mother, and then helped all three of us brothers sit in the hammock. The further the bamboo hammock swung, the more we laughed with delight. That peaceful, sweet feeling remained fresh in my heart for decades, not just once.
Occasionally, when we weren't home, our grandparents would come to visit their children and grandchildren. Whenever they arrived, my siblings and I would rush out, chattering excitedly, vying for hugs, and the whole family would be filled with joy. Dad would boil water for tea and send my older brother to the shop to buy wine; Mom would prepare betel nuts and cook rice and chicken. During the subsidy era, meals consisted of two meals a day of rice mixed with corn and potatoes, but the meals we prepared for our grandparents were always so thoughtful and special.
Back then, I thought my grandparents were honored guests of the family. As I got older, I understood that my parents' behavior wasn't out of politeness, but out of genuine respect and filial piety for them. After all, one can't be formal with relatives for decades, or even a lifetime. It's a sincere way of treating them, stemming from love and respect for one's parents.
Occasionally, when our parents were away on business trips, our grandparents would come to stay and take care of us. Grandma would sweep and tidy the house, arranging the furniture neatly and cleanly. Grandpa would ask each grandchild how their studies were going, what poems they knew, and what stories they liked to tell him. Then he would go out into the garden, admire the newly planted tea bushes, look at the newly sown cabbage patch, stake out the gourd and pumpkin vines to climb the trellis, check how many layers the honeybees had built in their nest, and then play with the grandchildren.
Decades have passed, and my grandparents have long since passed away. My mother has also joined them in the afterlife. In the realm of the living, they are surely reunited and watching over us, just as they did throughout their lives.
And we, drawing from the boundless love of our grandparents and parents, from the sweet memories that bear the mark of "lasting love," continue to nurture love and filial piety in our children and grandchildren. Generation after generation, one after another, like a river flowing endlessly...
Source: https://baogialai.com.vn/nhu-dong-song-chay-mai-post322187.html
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