Leaning against the mountain rock

In the afternoons, I often went out onto the balcony to gaze at the mountains. Through the mist, I saw them seemingly rising, almost touching the sunset. My father's words suddenly echoed in my ears: "The mountains are most beautiful at sunset. Later, when I'm gone, every afternoon, when Little Sister gazes towards the mountains, she will see me." Back then, I always thought my father would be with me forever because I firmly believed that my loved ones were always peacefully residing in the small wooden house at the foot of the mountain. Like morning, like evening. Like all four seasons: spring, summer, autumn, and winter…

Time and time again I asked my older brother to let me go back to the mountains. He silently turned away. Every time I asked to go back to the mountains, he found an excuse to refuse, either he was busy with work far away, or his health wasn't good enough to drive me back. I looked at him, tears welling up in my eyes. The house was enveloped in silence.

After being rejected by my older brother once, and then many times, I decided to return to the mountains alone.

The road to Ha Mountain is long and winding. Passing through Ha town towards the northwest, the road meanders between towering cliffs, and Ha Mountain appears through the car window. In my eyes, Ha Mountain is always majestic and poetic, especially in late winter and early spring. At that time, the mountain shimmers with the green of the vegetation, and the red, purple, yellow, and white hues of countless flowers sprouting from the rocky crevices. I roll down the window and take a deep breath of the mountain air that I have longed for and yearned for. Returning to the mountain fills me with joy and a deep affection. The thought of leaving everything of the city behind to return to the mountain ignites like a flame. I will return to the peaceful Ha Mountain and lean against it, feeling the mountain's comforting embrace…

My father's grave lies halfway up the mountain. The weeds, long untouched, have grown taller than a person's head. I parted the grass with my hand, clearing a path to go deeper inside. My father's grave is nestled among the forest trees, their blossoms a riot of colors this season, their fragrance gentle, but I don't mind. I feel sorrowful that the grass has obscured my father's view. When he was with us, he liked to stand on a safe, high point on the mountain, gazing into the distance. The fields and rice paddies were lush green under the azure sky, with clouds drifting lazily by. The scenery of our homeland was condensed within my sight. My father would often smile gently while admiring the mountain, his hand stroking my head. Seeing his smile, my heart felt warm, and I still believe that he and Mount Ha will always be in my life.

***

It seemed my father foresaw a long journey ahead. Before closing his eyes, with his last ounce of strength, he took my hand and placed it in my older brother's, tears welling up in his eyes. He couldn't speak, but I understood his intention was to ask my older brother to protect me for the rest of my life. I buried my face in my older brother's shoulder, my eyes filled with tears. My older brother held my hand tightly, as if silently promising my father.

The day we left Ha Mountain, my older brother took me to visit my father's grave one more time. While he was saying something in front of my father's grave that I couldn't hear clearly, I scooped up some soil and planted a cluster of white flowers in front of it, guessing that they would bloom in the spring. My older brother took me away from the mountain, telling me that no matter how difficult things were, he would ensure I received a good education, had a peaceful life, and wouldn't have to face any misfortunes. We returned to the city. The distant mountains faded behind us…

I don't blame you for not returning to Mount Hạ. I understand that everyone has their own inner struggles.

My brother and I were both born in the mountains. As children, our village nestled at the foot of the mountains, beautiful and idyllic, like something out of a fairy tale my father told me. The village was most beautiful in the spring. At that time, flowers bloomed all over the mountains. Night after night, the village resonated with the melodies of the mountains and forests; by the firelight, the young men and women sang and danced together. Our village was beautiful, and perhaps it would have remained beautiful forever, if the flood hadn't struck that autumn.

In my older brother's and my memories, the flood swept away lives, leaving behind devastation. The flood buried countless houses and lives. That time, my father managed to get me to a safe, high mound of earth, waiting for the raging flood to pass. Then, he suddenly saw a small figure struggling in the water. My older brother survived because my father plunged into the terrifying, swirling current and luckily managed to grab his hand. Then, both my father and my brother became entangled in a sturdy tree trunk standing tall amidst the rushing water. My father held his hand tightly, preventing the flood from sweeping him away, shielding him from the rocks and debris. I sat on the high mound, crying and waiting. After that flood, my village changed a lot. I gained an older brother because he had lost his entire family. Also from that flood, my father's health deteriorated, and not long after, we lost him.

***

I know you still love Mount Ha, you love your homeland, but the memories of the past are deeply etched in your mind. Returning to Mount Ha is a challenge for you. I know the pain within you has never truly subsided. You lost your entire family, and your father, though he protected you for only a short time, sacrificed his life for you. As for me, standing before Mount Ha, still majestic after so many changes, I see that the cracks caused by the flood have healed. Mount Ha is green again, majestic and peaceful in the afternoon sun.

I left my father's grave and followed the path down the mountain. There, nestled beside a small stream, stood a small house, its doors still tightly locked. The smell of cooking smoke from the village wafted through the air, white plumes of smoke rising from the cracks in the roof tiles, drifting lazily in the afternoon, merging into the deep, hazy mist.

I looked up at the summit of Mount Ha and I saw my older brother slowly descending the mountain, from the direction of our father's grave...

Short story: HOANG KHANH DUY

Source: https://baocantho.com.vn/tua-vao-da-nui-a194750.html