Coming home after the storm

During the days I watched the news about the storm, I couldn’t sleep. The storm was reported to be the biggest 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, through the cold numbers: level 12, gust level 15... But to me, those numbers were like knives hitting straight into my memory, where there was an old house, rows of areca trees standing straight like sentinels, and the figure of my mother bending over to sweep the yard every morning.

Báo Sài Gòn Giải phóng•07/12/2025

The car stopped at the end of the alley, the familiar alley was now less crowded, everyone was probably busy cleaning up after the storm. I walked very slowly, looking at each roof, each bamboo clump, each wildflower clump as if in the blink of an eye, everything would disappear. When the silhouette of my house appeared, I suddenly felt a stinging in my nose. The old house was still there, strangely peaceful. The mossy gray tiled roof was intact, dotted with only a few wet Indian almond leaves. The porch, where I used to sit and listen to the rain with my mother, was still clean, without any trace of the storm. The star fruit tree in the backyard still stood calmly, a few golden fruits peeking out from behind the leaves as if smiling at me to welcome me back.

When the wooden door opened, the old, musty smell mixed with the incense smoke from the ancestral altar rushed into my nose. I couldn’t contain my emotions. Everything was still the same as the day I left, the chipped tea set my mother used to keep in the kitchen corner, the picture of my grandfather hanging on the wall, the jar of new rice covered with a piece of floral cloth. Those simple things, in the city, could not be found. Here, each item seemed to carry the breath of time, containing memories and love. My mother walked out from the back kitchen. Her hair was gray and messy from a sleepless night, her hands still shaking from the hard work of securing the house. But her smile was still the same as ever, a smile that was enough to soothe all the worries in my heart. I ran to hug her. There were no words that could describe the feeling of touching something so dear, seemingly fragile but turned out to be more durable than everything.

My mother told me that the storm had been so strong all night that the wind was howling as if it wanted to collapse the roof, but somehow the house still stood. “The ancestors must have blessed me,” she said, smiling, her eyes wet. I looked out into the yard, the remaining drops of water glistening in the late afternoon sunlight. Each ray of light shining on the tiles made the roof look like it was wearing a new coat, sparkling with hope. Everything was as familiar as a fairy tale being told with me as the main character. No matter how far I went, how brightly I lived in the city, I still could not find this feeling, the feeling that I belonged somewhere. The house did not change, only I grew up, drifted away, and then found my way back.

I realized that storms can knock down trees, sweep away crops, and houses, but they cannot touch people's memories, emotions, and attachments to their homeland. Home is not just a shelter. It is part of my soul, where I learn to stand up after all the storms of life. That night, I lay in my old room, listening to the sound of the wind blowing in the garden. There was no more sound of the storm, only the gentle warmth spreading from the quiet walls. I knew that tomorrow when I returned to the city, I needed to remember that after every storm, my homeland would still wait for me with that intactness. No matter how much life pushed me, I still had a place to return to.

Comment (0)