Moon of the past…

The memories came back so vividly as if just last night I was still the ten-year-old girl asking him to take me to catch fireflies in a glass jar, sparkling the whole magical world . I saw myself planting rice with my mother under the moonlight, the wind blowing coolly on my mother's hard-working back, my little back. The summer sun was blazing hot, and during the day we couldn't go to the fields early, so the people in my hometown still took advantage of the opportunity to plant rice, pull peanuts, and bail water under the moonlight like that.

In my memory, the moon of the past was bright and clear, illuminating all things on earth. The moon poured down on the long country roads, and the birds were still sleeping on the treetops. The moon illuminated the country yards: grandma sat chewing betel, the children played jump rope, played marbles, played marbles, and released leeches and turtles... Mom took the opportunity to cut pigweed, dad sipped tea with the neighbors.

That peaceful scene in the time of flickering oil lamps, thanks to the moon, our childhood world became sparkling. How many of the most beautiful dreams of my life I dreamed under the moonlight, beside the hammock swinging with folk songs and fairy tales from my grandmother. The white stork on the bamboo top woke up startled when it heard the baby's cry, quickly flapped its wings and flew across the silent river, lonely at night...

Many people have asked me, “Why is the moon not as bright as it used to be?” Is it because the moon is moving farther away from the Earth according to the law of acceleration? Or is it because the light from street lamps and electric bulbs has now covered up the moonlight? I only know that as I grew up, everything gradually changed.

The old people gradually passed away, leaving behind dried areca nuts, lime no longer fragrant on anyone's red lips, at the end of the garden the betel trellis stood alone. My grandmother passed away, taking with her fairy tales to heaven. Children today have more or less lost their faith in fairies and gods like us in the distant past. Also because of the busy life of making a living, there is no one to tell them fairy tales with a distant gaze, with a kind heart, forgiving all their life believing in goodness. I also believe that the fairy tales told by my grandmother become magical thanks to the magical moonlight.

I heard someone calling me under the moonlight. My childhood friends now wandering in the bustling city. I longed to sip a sip of jasmine tea, infused with the moonlight of the countryside when my parents' hair was still green. I longed to lie comfortably on a cot, waving my grandmother's hand to fan the bamboo, singing lullabies to the storks and herons. There were times when my longing made me cry and say: "Grandma, don't go, grandma/ So that the fairy tales still have a place to rely on/ Folk songs owe a piece of betel from the past/ When you go, you leave behind a star to wait for me"...

Source: https://baoquangnam.vn/trang-cua-ngay-xua-3157197.html