The late afternoons of the year

Having lived away from my homeland for over 30 years, amidst the changes in the country, the unpredictable complexities, the love, the letting go, the coping mechanisms… there were times when I truly felt life was incredibly complicated and difficult.

But in return, I find I still have enough energy to dedicate myself to my work, to struggle through life. And the image of my father, in the hardships of the impoverished subsidy era, always working tirelessly day and night, and always encouraging his children to study hard so they wouldn't suffer later, that image, those words of my father, have been a source of motivation for me to overcome challenges. I always strive to be worthy of being the eldest child in the family that my father entrusted so much hope to his younger siblings. I live far from my hometown, currently working for the government; the late afternoons of December also mark the end of the old year with all its joys and sorrows, gains and losses. Now, most of the old year has ended, and many new things will begin. I walked out of the year-end review and evaluation meeting, unsure whether to be happy or worried, joyful or sad, knowing that all the regulations for evaluating and ranking people were based on a fixed percentage, rather than on individual ability and contribution. Some civil servants and officials worked with all their heart, applying their academic knowledge to their professional work effectively; significantly reducing the time a team needed to complete tasks, fostering trust and mutual support among colleagues, and assisting leaders in implementing useful initiatives for the unit… but because of the percentage, they weren't evaluated as having completed their duties excellently. Then, I quickly forgot about all the regulations that kept changing over time. As night fell, the worries of daily life gradually faded; occupying my soul were melancholic, deep, and vague melodies. Perhaps it was the vague longing of someone missing their homeland. The last afternoons of the year always fill my soul with a myriad of colorful sounds. Sometimes I wish those last afternoons wouldn't come, or that they would arrive slowly, simply because work wasn't finished or I needed time to prepare for a few necessary things before welcoming the new year. But other times, I wish they would come quickly and linger for a long time, so I could reminisce about the journey of my years living away from home—a journey that, though not very long, was enough to understand what was advantageous and what was challenging.

Da Lat on a late afternoon at the end of the year. Photo: Internet

It's not just me; those of us who live far from home often miss our hometown at the end of the year. The longing to return home quickly to see our loved ones after a long absence is intense. Many want to embrace all the familiar scenes of their childhood, like the fields, hills, alluvial plains, or the bamboo groves winding around the small river. We remember our parents, who toiled their whole lives, their hands calloused, carefully tending to every sack of rice and potato, saving every penny to raise their children, hoping they would reach a bright future and escape the life of a farmer toiling under the sun. Recalling the gathering around the dinner table with my siblings when I visited home last year fills me with such longing. Even though the evening meal was simple, and the time spent together was limited, as everyone was busy with their own family affairs, those are indelible memories of family love that nothing can ever replace. Sitting alone in my second home, the city of Da Lat, a land of thousands of flowers, dreamy in the late winter afternoons; the gentle breeze and cool climate only intensify the strange, simple memories of my homeland, a poor rural area. My soul has taken refuge somewhere, sometimes by the fish pond, sometimes around the banana trees behind the house, sometimes swaying in the orchard… sometimes along the riverbank picking wild apples, then choosing a spot with cool, gently flowing water to soak myself to my heart's content… Remembering those moments, I suddenly feel an extraordinary sense of peace and tranquility. The Gregorian year is almost over, and the Lunar New Year is not far off. I imagined a quiet, uncrowded countryside, a simple place, a rural area where life, though difficult, is all very peaceful and gentle. That place, with its simple houses and few people passing by, is where I was born and raised, leaving behind vivid childhood memories, deeply imprinted with the presence of my grandparents, parents, and loved ones whom I always long to return to.

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