Going home after the storm.

Watching the news about the storm, I couldn't sleep. It was announced as the biggest storm in years, sweeping through the countryside where I was born. In the city, people only heard about the storm through the sound of the news broadcast, through cold numbers: level 12, gusts up to level 15... But for me, those numbers were like knives stabbing straight into my memories, where there was my old house, where the rows of betel nut trees stood tall like sentinels, and where my mother bent over sweeping the yard every morning.

The car stopped at the end of the alley, a familiar lane now emptier than usual, everyone probably busy cleaning up after the storm. I walked slowly, looking at each rooftop, each bamboo grove, each clump of wildflowers as if everything would vanish in the blink of an eye. When my house finally came into view, my eyes welled up with tears. The old house was still there, strangely peaceful. The moss-covered gray tiled roof was intact, only a few damp leaves of the banyan tree were scattered across it. The porch, where I used to sit and listen to the rain with my mother, was still clean, showing no trace of the storm. The starfruit tree in the backyard still stood serenely, a few ripe yellow fruits peeking out from behind its leaves, as if smiling to welcome me home.

Photo: NHU KHUE

As the wooden door opened, the musty, old smell mingled with the incense smoke from the ancestral altar. I couldn't help but feel emotional. Everything was exactly as it had been when I left: the chipped teapot my mother kept in the corner of the kitchen, the photograph of my grandfather hanging on the wall, the jar of freshly harvested rice covered with a floral cloth. These simple things are impossible to find in the city. Here, each item seemed to carry the breath of time, holding memories and affection. My mother emerged from the back kitchen. Her gray hair was disheveled from sleepless nights, her hands still trembling from the hard work of securing the house. But her smile remained as radiant as ever, a smile powerful enough to soothe all the anxieties in my heart. I ran to embrace her. No words could adequately describe the feeling of touching something so dear, something seemingly fragile yet more enduring than anything else.

My mother recounted that throughout the storm, the wind howled as if it wanted to tear down the roof, but somehow the house remained standing. “It must have been our ancestors’ protection,” she said, then smiled, her eyes glistening with tears. I looked out into the yard; the remaining raindrops glistened in the late afternoon sun. Each ray of light illuminated the roof tiles, making it seem as if it had donned a new coat, sparkling with hope. Everything felt familiar, like a fairy tale told with me as the main character. No matter how far I traveled, no matter how vibrant the city streets became, I could never find this feeling again—the feeling of belonging somewhere. The house remained unchanged; only I grew up, drifted further away, and then found my way back.

I realized that while storms can knock down trees, sweep away crops and houses, they can't touch the memories, feelings, and attachment people have to their homeland. A house isn't just a place to shelter. It's a part of my soul, the place where I learn to rise again after every storm in life. That night, I lay in my old room, listening to the wind whistling in the garden. There was no more storm, only the gentle warmth emanating from the peaceful walls. I knew that tomorrow, returning to the city, I needed to remember that after every storm, my hometown still awaited me, intact, no matter how life pushed me around; I still had a place to return to.

DU MIEN

Source: https://www.sggp.org.vn/ve-nha-sau-bao-post827311.html