July low notes

July passed by the old school, the royal poinciana branches swayed in the sky, lit up. The sound of cicadas falling in the sunny yard, the empty stone bench in a sad corner.

The school drum fell asleep in the corner of the Lagerstroemia, a few late blooming clusters, light purple and pink, crowded with clusters of young fruit. Suddenly seeing the old Royal Poinciana tree still bearing the marks of names, probably engraved by some student on the day of farewell in the last summer, memories suddenly flooded back, the green lines of the dear yearbook, July filled with memories. The July exam season had just ended, so many joys and sorrows, worries and plans for the future, the children were leaving their mothers and hometowns for the first time, stepping into the university lecture hall.

July comes back to my memory with the harvest season just finished, on the village road, rice was drying everywhere. Mounds of yellow straw grew up, children played hide and seek all afternoon, calling each other. Then the planting season was bustling again in the village. Following father, following mother to the field to plant, lunch with fish and crab, simple but delicious, full of love.

The villagers have mud on their hands and feet but love and care for each other, today planting at Uncle Tam's house, tomorrow at Aunt Hai's house, then a few days later at my house, just like that, we go through many rainy and sunny seasons together. The smell of mud mixed with the smell of sweat, creating a typical hard-working smell of farmers, rustic and close. After planting, the new moon has just risen, going down to the stream to wash our feet and hands, the cool breeze blows away all the hardships. Then the rains will water the fields, the rice will quickly grow green, promising a bountiful harvest to come.

Loving parents who have spent their whole lives working under the sun and rain, working hard, and when their children grow up, they are too young to repay their kindness and their parents are either near death or have passed away early. Every time I think about it, my heart aches, and I feel sorry for those difficult July months.

The Martyrs' Cemetery in July, flowers also bloomed, filled with emotion before the day of remembrance for the heroes who sacrificed for the great cause. How much blood of the ancients was shed to dye the country red. How many tears of mothers and wives silently waited for a day of victory. Some returned with pieces of bones wrapped in the national flag. Some left a part of their body on the battlefield, returning on wooden crutches, in wheelchairs.

Ho Chi Minh City Martyrs Cemetery in July. Photo: DUNG PHUONG

There are people who still ache every time the weather changes. Old wounds and old bullet fragments still smolder even though their homeland has long been free of enemy presence. There are people who will never return, their bodies may be lying in the trenches or cold in the deep forests, or they may be lying in thousands of unidentified graves across the country. Please light a stick of incense on this July day to express our deep gratitude and commemorate the great contributions of those whom the Fatherland is proud to call "Heroes".

July is neither hasty nor noisy, gently flowing like the paper boat of old leisurely on the water. July is like a low note in the symphony of time. July reaches out and autumn has arrived, in the garden, sunflowers are bright yellow, bustling in the sun. Listening to July coming, wistful, wistful...!

LAC YEN

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