Crying

BPO - “Who has scrap to sell…”, while I was busy preparing dinner, the cry from the alley made me stop. The cry sounded both strange and familiar, like the cry of my father that followed me throughout my childhood. “Who has scrap to sell…” - the cry my father made every day while riding his bicycle to make a living.

In the early 90s of the last century, my parents moved from the Southwest to the Southeast to find a way out of poverty. In the new land, the landscape was wild and the population was sparse, my parents built a thatched house with mud walls on a small plot of land lent to them by a distant relative.

All year round, my father worked as a hired hand, then went to cut trees for firewood and charcoal, my mother stayed home to take care of me and grow crops. Family life would have passed peacefully like that if my mother had not suddenly passed away after a stroke. At that time, I was only 5 years old. The generous, cheerful man that was my father gradually lost his smile. He loved his virtuous wife who died young, and even more so, he loved his young child who had lost his mother early.

My father became emaciated after a short time. He was immersed in his own pain. But then he had to face reality, with a small child to take care of and the village nearby to share, he gradually regained his spirit. He started looking for another job, because he could not take me into the forest with him. At that time, materials were scarce, so the demand for recycling was very high. My father went to find out about the job and then started buying and selling scrap from there. My father tied a small chair to the front frame of his bicycle for me to sit on, behind him he tied 2 big logs to make a homemade cart to carry the scrap he bought. The cry "Who has scrap, broken aluminum, plastic, nylon to sell?..." followed me from then on.

The people in the area sympathized with my father and I, so they would collect any broken or discarded items for my father to buy; sometimes the aunts and uncles would give me a few pieces of candy, or even a dozen eggs… Those favors were unforgettable. After a day of wandering, my father would bathe me, cook me dinner, and then sort the scrap metal to take to the warehouse early the next morning.

I grew up and went to school, no longer riding around with my father on his old bicycle every day. But every night I still sorted out scrap metal with my father, the sound of our conversation and laughter made the house less lonely.

When I was in high school, my father told me to focus on my studies and let him take care of the junk business. Perhaps he was afraid that I would be ashamed of my job in front of my friends.

One day, on my way home from school, I saw my father speeding past me carrying scrap metal, as if he was afraid that my friends would recognize him. His tired appearance made my heart ache. I quickly ran after him, called him to stop, introduced him to my friends, and told them that if we had scrap metal at home, I should ask him to come and collect it. After the initial confusion, my father smiled brightly in response to my friends' greetings. His smile, his bright eyes, and the drops of sweat running down his face are images that I will remember for the rest of my life.

During my four years in college, my father brought his old bicycle to Saigon and rented a small room for the two of us to stay in. He wandered around to get acquainted with the roads and connections, continuing with his familiar cries. There was no corner of Saigon that did not bear his footprints.

After graduating, my father and I returned to our hometown to live. After working and having a stable income, I advised my father to stay home and not work hard anymore. So he put the bicycle in a corner as a souvenir. He said he was bored at home, so I saved up and borrowed more money to open a small grocery store for him to sell candy to children in the village. Since being busy with his "customers", my father seemed younger and happier.

Over ten years have passed, my father and I have adapted to our new lives and jobs. The old cry that seemed to have fallen asleep has now been awakened. Perhaps, my father's cry is like a part of my memory that cannot be erased no matter how much time passes.

I grew up and became a teacher from my father's old bicycle full of scrap. I have never been ashamed of my father's job, on the contrary, I am proud that he has always loved and done everything for me. My father taught me that every job is valuable because from your efforts you bring good values ​​to life.

Hello love, season 4, theme "Father" officially launched from December 27, 2024 on four types of press and digital infrastructure of Radio - Television and Binh Phuoc Newspaper (BPTV), promising to bring to the public the wonderful values ​​of sacred and noble fatherly love.
Please send to BPTV your touching stories about Father by writing articles, writing feelings, poems, essays, video clips, songs (with recordings),... via email chaonheyeuthuongbptv@gmail.com, Editorial Secretary Office, Binh Phuoc Radio - Television and Newspaper, No. 228, Tran Hung Dao, Tan Phu Ward, Dong Xoai City, Binh Phuoc Province, phone number: 0271.3870403. The time to receive articles is from now until August 30, 2025.
Quality articles will be published, paid royalties, and rewarded at the end of the topic with 1 special prize and 10 excellent prizes.
Let's continue writing the story about Father with "Hello Love" season 4, so that stories about Father can spread and touch everyone's hearts!

Source: https://baobinhphuoc.com.vn/news/19/173696/tieng-rao