There are seasons of gratitude

The rain also cooled the sweltering heat after the harvest days, making the dirt roads leading to the fields suddenly softer. And so, every year, when the first rain of the season fell, my mother reminded me: “The day to burn incense for the ancestors is almost here.”

That day - July 27 - to me, when I was young, did not evoke anything great. I only knew that it was the day when the whole neighborhood gathered to go to the cemetery nestled on the hillside at the end of the village. I still remember clearly the feeling of my mother's hand holding mine tightly as we walked through the dewy weeds, the other hand holding a bunch of lilies still sticky with sap. Children like me were only excited because after visiting the grave, we would be given candy or a cake to put in our shirt pockets as a reward for being good.

At that time, I did not understand anything about the word “martyr”. I only remembered that my grandfather, whom I had never met, lay in one of the graves on the hill. His name was engraved on the stone stele, his hometown was still clear, but the year of his death was covered with moss. My grandmother often sat for a long time in front of the stele, stroking the reeds growing lonely beside her. One year, there was a heavy rain, the road was slippery, she fell, but still struggled to hold on to her cane, just to be able to go up the hill to light incense.

When I grew up a little more, I understood why my mother always told me to go with her. She said: "So that you remember that you still owe me a thank you." It turns out that the peace I breathe, the peace I go to school, the peace I grow up with - all owe to those who have passed away. Those young people that year left with a promise to return, but that promise only remains in the memories of those who stayed.

Youth Union members of Tan Ninh ward ( Tay Ninh province) respectfully offer incense to commemorate heroic martyrs (Photo: To Tuan)

On the afternoon of July 27, when the city lights were on, in my neighborhood, young volunteers in green shirts carried bamboo torches and walked through each small alley, knocked on each door, and invited the elderly to attend the martyrs' memorial service. Everyone's shirts were soaked with sweat, their hands were blackened by the torch smoke, but their eyes sparkled. In the flickering firelight, I heard the village chief tell stories of the marching days, stories of rice mixed with corn, stories of wounds that were not bandaged in time and blood stained their uniforms. I heard the stories over and over again, every year, but they never got old.

Nowadays, the streets are changing rapidly. At the beginning of my village, the dirt road of years ago has been paved with smooth concrete. The old tin-roofed houses have been replaced with bright red tiled roofs, and motorbikes are parked close together. But every July, the grateful footsteps are still there. The martyrs' cemetery still lies humbly on the hill, still a place for people like my mother, my grandmother and my generation - bringing their children - to express a silent promise: We will not forget.

One year I returned home late, on the night of July 27th, the cemetery was deserted, with only a few red incense sticks left. I sat down beside my grandfather’s grave, absentmindedly picking weeds around the tombstone, my heart suddenly warmed by the lingering scent of incense. I thought, no matter how busy we are, we will find our way back. Maybe not on the same day, not at the same time, but with incense, there will be someone who remembers. Gratitude, sometimes that’s all it takes.

And for me, gratitude is also to remind myself to live a life worthy of the life they left behind in the land. To help me understand that every meal, every step, every laugh - is not only mine, but also that of those who have not yet returned.

July 27 is not a festival day, there are no brilliant fireworks, and there are no lively songs. It is a day of billowing incense sticks, of the scent of white chrysanthemums and lilies. It is a day of old people with trembling hands folding incense sticks, of children staring blankly at the rows of steles with missing names, of young people silently bowing their heads before the steles darkened by time. It is a day when memories are wrapped up and passed from one person to another, without much fuss but still full.

Tomorrow, the day after, and then July will pass, the rain will stop, the sun will rise and the streets will be bustling again as if no rain had ever come. But in my small village, there will still be a silent hill, a cemetery nestled in the casuarina trees, there will still be hastily placed incense sticks, burning red in the afternoon wind. And I believe, whether 50 years or 100 years from now, there will still be soundless footsteps, unformed prayers - but warmer than any song of gratitude.

There is a season of gratitude like that, quiet, persistent, permeating the land, into people. And will never disappear./.

Duc Anh

Source: https://baotayninh.vn/co-nhung-mua-tri-an-a192390.html