Going home - a wonderful journey of the heart

(DN) - The sound of the rain falling on the porch makes people feel a bit nostalgic. People often compare the sound of raindrops falling to silent drops of sadness blending into the indefinite silence. The North in the early days of winter welcomes the cold air intensified by sudden rains. The doorstep is a bit mossy. The musty, musty smell of the soil rushes into the nose, the light breeze gently kisses the hair of the girl sitting watching the rain. The phone screen lights up, it is a message from mom: "Remember to bring a raincoat to work, dear, or else it will rain suddenly and you will get sick"...

In the past, every time my mother reminded me to bring this or that with me, I would get angry and argue with her: "I'm an adult, you don't have to worry." But now, every time I hear my mother's reminders, I smile, my heart filled with compassion and happiness. Because I still have my mother by my side to comfort me, to love me and receive her attention, things that seem so small but there is a whole sky of love that a mother has for her children.

For many people, happiness must be something big. As for me, a girl who has entered her forties after many ups and downs in life, I have begun to think differently: happiness comes from simple things, the little things in life, when I receive love and give the care I have for my loved ones. It is the weekend when I can go home with my children to my mother, the place that gave me peaceful childhood memories with my parents, with my little sister who was willing to give me anything, with my younger brother who always wanted to follow her to school...

Coming home to sit with my mother on the old steps stained with time with yellowed red bricks and moss somewhere. On those steps were imprinted the unsteady footsteps of three sisters in their early years of life with the encouragement of their parents. It was the burst of joy with endless applause when the youngest child for the first time put down crutches to walk on the legs that people still thought were crippled legs due to the after-effects of polio in her childhood years. My father at that time cried like a child out of happiness because the youngest child had that achievement thanks to his perseverance and patience when he accompanied her every day, giving her encouragement so that she would not give up. My father was also the support, the shoulder for my mother to lean on, giving her the belief that my youngest child would be able to do it when every time she witnessed her youngest child burst into tears because of collapsing with her bleeding legs...

Right at that old house’s doorstep, my sisters and I sat waiting for our parents to come home from work to receive a tiny gift from our father’s worn-out shirt pocket. Sometimes it was chewy, sweet coconut candy, sometimes it was soft, sweet milk candy, and in that shirt pocket, I could still smell the pungent smell of sweat after a day when my father carried bags of pure white salt with the salty taste of the sea into the warehouse. Right at that small doorstep of that three-room tiled wooden house, I could see the boundless love, the silent, great, and steadfast sacrifice of the two parents for their young children…

Coming home with my mother to go out to the garden with her to pick some mixed vegetables to cook a small bowl of soup with some dried shrimp. I felt like my mother's steps were no longer as brisk, her back was more bent, hunched over in the corner of the garden. Being able to cook a pot of fish with my mother in a time-stained earthen pot in a wood stove with a "fragrant" smell of smoke. Being able to fan the warm fire with my mother, the whole family gathered around a simple but loving meal. At that simple meal, my mother told stories of the past that were not boring or old-fashioned as I once thought. So that the children and grandchildren would have the opportunity to remember their roots, to remember their grandfathers in the poor years when their parents were the same age as they are now.

Is it true that returning to a beloved home is always a simple but most wonderful journey in everyone's heart? Whether "returning home" in mind or on your own feet, it is always happiness. All storms of life will stop behind the door. It is happiness gathered from simple, ordinary things. It is the understanding of why after each return to love, mother often recalls old stories. Also because, mother's hair has now turned into clouds, wrinkles are deeper every day in the corners of her eyes and mother does not have much time for future stories.

Pham Thi Yen

Source: https://baodongnai.com.vn/van-hoa/chao-nhe-yeu-thuong/202510/ve-nha-hanh-trinh-tuyet-voi-cua-trai-tim-6961c3a/