Plant a tree

Recently, my second sister's mango tree planted in the yard started to bear fruit. She took pictures of the first mangoes of the season to show off. She said she didn't expect to live to see the day the mango tree bore fruit. That's right, when she planted the mango tree, she was 84 years old, now that the tree bears fruit, she is 86. Then she felt sad again: I don't know how many more mango seasons she can pick. I teased her: Are you afraid of dying again? She laughed loudly on the phone.

There are three children in the family, I am the only son but I followed my wife's hometown to stay in the city to make a living. The temple should have been handed over to my husband and I to look after the incense, but because we lived far away, I handed it over to my sister. When her children grew up, she handed it over to my nephew. I said handed it over, but my nephew and I did not live in the temple but built a house next door. Every morning we went over to clean, light incense, and water the trees in the yard. The yard was full of commemorative trees. On the left gable, my father used to plant a tamarind tree, which has now become an ancient tamarind tree, its canopy covering the entire temple. Behind the house is a row of coconut trees that have been there since my great-grandfather's time. Strangely, after so many years, they still stand tall, and the fruit is still heavy, but because they are so tall, no one bothers to pick them. When the fruit dries, they fall off by themselves. My second sister chooses the coconuts that are still edible, peels them, grinds the rice, and squeezes the coconut juice to make sweet soup for the grandchildren. Then she grows young trees and plants them in a row along the front fence. She says: Never mind, let the children have fruit to drink later. Indeed, the coconut trees she planted are now nearly ten years old, each stall is full of fruit, when the children get tired of drinking, they sell them to buy candy they like. In front of the porch, when I came back to celebrate a death anniversary after I retired, I stayed for a month, I bought bauhinia trees to plant, and added a few rose bushes to make it more beautiful. Probably suitable for the soil and climate, bauhinia flowers give fresh pink flowers every summer. As for the rose bushes, they give flowers all year round, beautifying the house and making it less lonely.

Once a year, the family welcomes their children and grandchildren from far away to gather for ancestral worship. Ancestral worship. The food is spread from the inside of the house to the front of the house, filling up the hallway and the yard. Every time there is ancestral worship, the sisters, aunts, and nieces gather together to prepare and cook from the morning of the previous day until noon the next day. After paying respects to their ancestors, the whole family gathers to eat, drink, chat, and sing. It is also thanks to the ancestral worship that relatives can meet, know each other, talk, and strengthen the bond of love. If there were no ancestral worship, each person would live on their own, and the descendants born later would not know their brothers and sisters.

Before I was working, I only returned home every year on the occasion of my ancestors' death anniversaries, my father's death anniversaries, and my mother's death anniversaries. For other death anniversaries, my second sister would take care of the offerings, and I would only send her a small amount of money as a contribution to the offerings. Since I retired and became a billionaire, I have been able to return home more often. Sometimes I stay for a whole month to visit relatives. The air in the countryside is cool, airy, and the peaceful scenery makes my soul feel relaxed and comfortable. I also want to move back to my own home, "even a dead fox returns to the mountains", when everyone gets old, they long for their homeland. The problem is that my wife has to stay in the city to take care of the grandchildren for our two children, and the situation of the husband in one place and the wife in another cannot last forever. So I only stay for a month and then have to return to the city to be with my wife and children. The responsibility of being a husband and a father is now added to the responsibility of being a grandfather, which is very heavy.

The last time she called to inform me that the house was in a very bad state, I think the sisters would have to pool their money to re-tile the roof and reinforce the beams and columns, otherwise the termites would eat it all. When I heard her news, I immediately returned to my hometown. Then we had a family meeting, a clan meeting. Everyone contributed a little money, those who didn't have money contributed labor. The renovation work lasted a whole month. The house was as spacious and clean as before. To mark this important occasion, I bought a Thai jackfruit tree and an avocado tree to plant in the front yard so that they would have shade in the future. Everyone laughed and asked why I was so old that I was planting jackfruit and avocado. Old people are like ripe bananas, so who plants trees that bear fruit quickly? Who plants trees that have long-lived trees? I laughed and replied: Planting trees is to remember the important day, and the fruit is for future generations to enjoy. I am old, so I have to plant something that will live longer than me so that future generations can eat the fruit and remember their fathers and uncles who have gone before. Since then I have not heard anyone laugh or slander anymore.

After a month, I said goodbye to my beloved temple, goodbye to my hometown to return to the city. The day I left, the purple bauhinia flowers were blooming brightly in a corner of the porch, and the rose bushes showed off their bright pink color under the summer sun. I walked out the gate but my feet didn’t want to go, didn’t want to leave this place. I lingered at the gate, looking at the temple, at the tamarind tree, the mango tree, the purple bauhinia tree, and the rose bushes. Then I looked at the newly planted jackfruit and avocado trees in front of the yard. Later, I wonder if I will be able to come back to visit them again, they will probably be very grown up by then.

Seeing me standing there dazed and refusing to get in the car, my brother patted my shoulder and whispered: Don't worry, I'll come back here again and again, and eat countless more avocado and jackfruit seasons. I laughed: I just hope to live and eat the lucky fruit season, my dear. When I said that, I was very aware of the impermanence of human life, it's here and then it's gone. But it's okay, as long as the trees are still green, they will remind future generations of the people who went before, the people who planted the trees so that they can pick the fruit today. That's enough happiness.

Source: https://baobinhthuan.com.vn/trong-cay-109032.html