Low notes of July

July passed by the old school grounds, the flame-red branches swaying in the fiery sky. Cicadas chirped in the sun-drenched courtyard, and the empty stone benches sat sadly in a corner.

The school drum lay dormant beside the crape myrtle tree, a few late-blooming clusters of purplish-pink blossoms nestled among the heavy bunches of unripe fruit. Suddenly, I noticed the names etched on the trunk of the old flame tree, surely inscribed by some students on their final summer farewell. Memories flooded back, the green of cherished handwritten notes, July lingering with a sky full of recollections. July, the month of exams, had just ended, bringing with it a mix of joys, sorrows, anxieties, and plans for the future—for those children leaving their mothers and hometowns for the first time, stepping onto the university campus.

July arrives in my memory with the harvest just finished, rice stalks drying everywhere along the village roads. Golden straw mounds rise up, children play hide-and-seek all afternoon, calling out to each other. Then comes the bustling planting season, with villages and hamlets bustling about. Following my father and mother to the fields to plant rice, the midday meal of fish and crab, simple yet delicious, was filled with warmth and affection.

The villagers, with their hands and feet covered in mud, love and support each other. One day they plant rice at Uncle Tam's house, the next day at Aunt Hai's, and then a few days later at their own house, and so they go through countless seasons of rain and sunshine together. The smell of mud mixed with the smell of sweat creates a distinctive, rustic, and familiar scent of the farmers. After planting, the crescent moon rises. They go down to the stream to wash their hands and feet, the cool breeze washing away all the hardship. Then the rains will water the fields, the rice will quickly turn green, promising a bountiful harvest to come.

I feel sorry for my parents who spent their whole lives toiling under the sun and rain, working the land from dawn till dusk, only to find that by the time their children grew up, they were too old to repay their kindness, or had already passed away. Every time I think about it, my heart aches, and I feel sorrow for those difficult Julys of the past.

In July, the Martyrs' Cemetery is ablaze with blossoming flowers, evoking a profound sense of emotion as we commemorate the heroes who sacrificed their lives for a greater cause. So much blood of our ancestors has been shed, staining the land red. So many tears of mothers and wives have silently awaited the day of victory. Some returned with only fragments of their bones wrapped in the national flag. Others left a part of their bodies on the battlefield, returning on crutches or in wheelchairs.

Ho Chi Minh City Martyrs' Cemetery during the month of July. Photo: DUNG PHUONG

There are those who still suffer from aching pains whenever the weather changes. Old wounds, shrapnel from the past, still fester even though their homeland has long since been free from enemy influence. There are those who will never return; their bodies may lie in trenches, in the cold depths of the jungle, or perhaps in tens of thousands of unidentified graves scattered across the country. Let us light a candle of remembrance on this July day, to express our profound gratitude and to commemorate the immense contributions of those whom our nation proudly calls "Heroes."

July is neither hurried nor noisy, gently drifting like a paper boat of yesteryear, leisurely gliding on the water. July is like a low note in the symphony of time. July is just a hand's reach away from autumn; in the garden, sunflowers blaze with yellow, rustling in the sunlight. Listen to July's arrival, a feeling of wistfulness, a sense of longing...!

LAC YEN

Source: https://www.sggp.org.vn/not-tram-thang-bay-post804547.html