I feel sorry for the teacher's hair.

I couldn't remember what my teacher's original hairstyle looked like. In my memories of the early 2000s, all I could recall was his hair with a few streaks of salt and pepper. He would often rub his thinning forehead, giving us all sorts of advice before each exam. Advice that none of us bothered to think through until we were old enough to understand.

The teacher often said that school days are the most carefree time. It's the age when you can freely cry when sad, laugh when happy, or even "stop being friends" whenever you're upset. Everyone gives their affection innocently and without much self-interest, simply out of love and respect. Like the affection the teacher has for generations who have grown up in this school nestled behind the eucalyptus trees that act as a sand barrier? A student asked, prompting a few minutes of thoughtful silence. The teacher just smiled gently, without answering.

Back in the days before extra classes, our teacher always made time for us to have a proper summer. A summer where students dedicated themselves to extracurricular activities, like going to the teacher's house to ask for some mangoes from the tree, or diligently weeding the school garden on days designated for fieldwork.

The teacher's house was always stocked with sweets and treats to entertain the children. The more unconventional and unusual the students were in class, the more they liked to visit their teacher. Decades later, when their hair had turned gray with age, those students who had once picked fruit and climbed trees all gathered here to reminisce about memories—memories that cannot be quantified in any tangible material form.

Teachers and students of Tran Hung Dao Primary School (Cau Ong Lanh Ward, Ho Chi Minh City) during a technology lesson. Photo: HOANG HUNG

Rain and sunshine have colored memories yellow. Visiting my teacher one November afternoon, I saw his naive handwriting still carefully preserved in a corner of his house. The school newspaper, somewhat stained by countless storms in the central region, was respectfully hung next to the class photos. Our class was the last class he was the homeroom teacher for before being transferred to another job.

The class never missed a single day at the mango orchard, even during the scorching summer months. Many of them are now doctors and engineers, suddenly feeling young again, reliving the days when they vied for every single bag of chili salt. A few jokes from their innocent youth, like a rejuvenating elixir for those who have grown up and matured, made them long to be children again.

Even on days when he was too ill to eat, he maintained his habit of reading the newspaper every morning through his reading glasses. He would browse through the news, then search for an article by one of his former students, now a writer. He anchored his heart in the direction of infinity, watching time shrink through the old calendar pages. That overflowing zest for life enveloped his wrinkled forehead, his age-spotted hands, and his hunched back, which could no longer reach the attendance register on the blackboard. Looking at him, we learned another lesson about optimism.

As the teacher's hair turned white, the boats had reached their destination. With each passing Teacher's Day, the time to see him diminished a little. "There's nothing to regret about youth," he once said, "because we have lived a fulfilling life." For him and all those who steer the boat of knowledge, the most precious thing is seeing their students stand firmly on the other shore.

Even as his hair turned white, his words remained vivid through the years.

ORIGINAL

Source: https://www.sggp.org.vn/thuong-mai-toc-thay-post824954.html