Like a river flowing forever

There are people, scenes, and stories that seem to have sunk into the distant past, fading away like clouds and wind in the sky or fading into the dust of space and time... but they still live forever in the mind. It seems that memories have classified and stamped "lastingly" on these images and memories, so that even though they do not carry the oath of rivers drying up and rocks wearing away, they still remain deep in each person's heart, warm, dear, and close like breath.

In the scattered thoughts of remembering and forgetting, amidst the vastness of life, the images of my grandparents and mother - who have gone away forever - are always present and return vividly, lingering in my memory. When I was born, my paternal grandparents were no longer around, but fortunately my maternal grandparents were still there. I lived in happiness with my grandparents, loved and protected by them throughout my childhood.

Our house was not far from my grandparents' house, but at that time there was no means of transportation. Every time we went back to my mother's hometown, my mother and I would just walk together. With a small basket in her hand, a white conical hat on her head, and a waist-cinching shirt with skillful hand-sewn seams, my mother was as beautiful as the women in literature: gentle, filial to her parents, and responsible for her family. Even though she was married far away, every couple of months, my mother would make the effort to visit her parents.

My brothers and I have been following our mother to visit our grandparents since we were 3 or 5 years old, so familiar that we know every road, every change in the landscape of the fields every year, every season. In January and February, the rice is ripe and the fields are flooded; in March, the rice is green and green; in May, the fields are dry and the water is shallow, the rice is golden brown; in August, lightning and rain make the countryside white; in December, drizzle and cold wind, the cold is bitter, the dike is desolate.

Little did I know that the familiarity that I sometimes considered boring was the origin of a love for my homeland. Only when I was far away did I realize that the childhood days living in my motherland had become loving memories, a source of nurturing deep feelings for my grandparents, parents and the very land that raised me.

In those days, every time my mother and I visited my grandparents, when we were near the turn to the house, I would quickly run ahead and before even entering the yard, I would shout: “Grandpa! Grandma!” Usually, my grandparents would appear like gods or fairies, but not in the mist of a fairy tale, but from the kitchen or the pigsty or chicken coop. My grandparents would smile and happily open their arms to welcome us. One hugged my leg, one held my hand, one was lifted up high by my grandfather and laughed heartily.

At that time, my mother also came in, put down the basket in her hand. That basket usually contained a bunch of ripe bananas, a green areca branch, sometimes a package of betel and tobacco or a dozen herrings wrapped carefully in dried banana leaves. She would lovingly scold my mother for “buying so many things”, then took out a palm leaf fan and fanned each of us, smiling lovingly.

Mom also used her hat to fan herself to reduce her sweat, then leisurely told her grandparents about her family and her children's studies; asked them if the boys had sent letters home; when would they harvest the rice field outside the stream; and the beans at the end of the lane were bearing fruit this year, so one day the nine children and grandchildren would come and help pick them...

He listened to the story, answered my grandmother and mother, and let all three of us sit on the hammock. The farther the bamboo hammock was swung, the more we laughed happily. That sweet, peaceful feeling, not just once but for decades, remained fresh in my heart.

Once in a while, when we didn't come home, my grandparents would come out to visit their children and grandchildren. Whenever they came, my siblings and I would rush out, chattering and fighting for hugs, the whole family would be bustling with joy. My father would boil water to make tea, send my brother to the shop to buy wine; my mother would split areca nuts, make betel leaves, cook rice and chicken. During the subsidy period, we had two meals a day with corn and sweet potatoes, but the meals we served to my grandparents were always so thoughtful and special.

At that time, I thought my grandparents were honored guests of the family. When I grew up, I understood that my parents did not do that out of politeness but out of respect and filial piety for them. Because, one cannot be polite to relatives for decades, or even a lifetime. That was sincere treatment stemming from love and respect for one's parents.

Occasionally, when my parents were away on business, my grandparents would come to stay and take care of us. She would sweep, clean the house, arrange things neatly and cleanly. He would ask each grandchild how they were doing in school, what poems or stories they knew, or tell him. Then he would go out to the garden, look at the newly planted tea trees, look at the newly sown mustard greens, plant stakes for the gourd and squash vines to climb the trellis, watch how many layers of honey bee nests they had built, and then play with his grandchildren.

Decades have passed, my grandparents have passed away. My mother has also followed the white clouds to join them. In the afterlife, they must have reunited and are watching over us as they did throughout their lives.

As for us, from the infinite stream of love from our grandparents and parents, from the sweet memories that are “lasting”, we continue to nurture love and filial piety in our children and grandchildren. Generation after generation, one generation after another, like a river flowing forever...

Source: https://baogialai.com.vn/nhu-dong-song-chay-mai-post322187.html