[E-Magazine]: Quietly a shoulder

How long has it been since you visited your father? Come back, be with him and feel the most peaceful stability in the world, before time has time to wash away those memories. We often only realize the true value of a shoulder, a look when everything has become a memory. At that time, even salty tears cannot fill the empty space...

1. Have you ever wondered where a solidity can be formed? For me, that solidity was found on my father's shoulders, like an ancient tree root that clings deep into the ground, standing tall to protect me through many stormy seasons. My father, a man of few words with rough hands, but strong enough to support my whole life. I grew up, but my father's eyes were filled with thoughts, like thousands of years of sedimentary rock veins, telling of many worries that he never complained about. In that memory, I saw myself as a small boat, drifting on the ocean, and the lighthouse that guided me was my father's shadow, steadfast and never extinguished. I remember, on twilight afternoons, the last rays of the day lingered on my father's bent back as he sat on the porch, diligently repairing the bicycle I had just broken because I was too busy playing. Those grease stains not only stuck to my father's hands but also deeply engraved in my young mind every time I made a mistake.

I can never forget that early morning, when I was 10 years old, following my father to the field to draw water to fight the drought. The morning dew was all over the field, the cool breeze blew through the dry rice stalks, carrying the smell of newly broken soil and the faint scent of alluvium. I struggled with the bucket, my hands still weak, unable to draw it. Then the bucket slipped from my hands and fell into the ditch. I was stunned, disappointment overwhelmed me as I watched the bucket sink. Hearing the noise, my father quickly ran over. His shadow stretched across the ground, so fast that I felt like a gust of wind passing by. He knelt down and dipped his hand into the cold water, searching for the bucket. His hand was full of calluses, but at that moment I felt it was unusually strong. My father leaned close to my ear, softly speaking, his voice deep and steady, more steadfast than thunder: "Calm down, son. Everything will be fine." My father picked up the bucket and placed it in my hand, shining with boundless trust. He did not scold me, just quietly held my hand, guiding me through each water-slapping stroke. That morning, the road from the field to home seemed shorter.

2. I still see the image of my father sitting pensively with a cup of morning tea, his eyes looking far away into the empty yard. The lines on his forehead are evidence of many sleepless nights, of the times he stayed up all night worrying about our future. Every time I fell, my father did not rush to help me up, but let me stand up by myself, his eyes following, shining with the belief that I could do it. Then my father fell ill, it was an afternoon in early November, a persistent drizzle followed by a cold north wind. My father had just returned from the factory, his faded coat was not warm enough, his whole body was shaking. That night, my father coughed violently, his voice was hoarse, his eyes were tired but he still tried to keep calm. My mother was away, my brothers and I were too young to fully understand my father's exhaustion. I sat next to the bed, my small hand touching my father's arm, feeling the veins bulging.

I was extremely worried, but did not dare to cry. Suddenly, my father opened his eyes. His eyes were sunken and tired, but he still tried to look at me. He raised his hand, trembling as he gently stroked my hair. A faint smile appeared on his lips, as strong as a candle in the wind. "Don't worry, son. I'm fine"... His voice was weak and broken, but it dispelled the fear that was surrounding me. The next morning, although he was still tired, my father tried to get up. I saw him quietly go into the kitchen to cook a pot of hot ginger porridge, then fumbled to prepare things to go to work. His legs were still shaking, but each step was steady. He did not want us to see him weak, did not want his work to be missed. At that moment, I understood that a father's love is not only a gentle spring, but also a solid, immortal, steadfast and silent rock, even when his body was struggling with illness.

3. Now that I have grown up and faced life on my own, I understand more. Every decision I make, every success I achieve has my father's shadow behind me, quietly supporting and silently guiding the way. My father is not a bright light illuminating the path, he is a strong, steadfast mountain standing there, enough for me to lean on when I am tired, enough for me to find support when I am lost. One time, my impulsiveness was like a deep cut into my father's hope, an invisible wound but heavier than any reprimand. That was the year I failed the university entrance exam, the first shock of my life made me depressed and wanted to give up everything. That night, the house was quiet. I sat huddled in my room, waiting for a reproach or disappointed looks. My heart was pounding as if it was about to burst.

Then the door opened slightly. Father walked in without a sound. I raised my head and saw his sad eyes, but no tears fell. Father did not scold or comfort me in vain, he just sat down quietly beside me. He reached out and placed his hand gently on my shoulder. His hand was rough, but at that moment I felt like it transmitted an invisible source of energy to me. Then he said, his voice warm and slow: "Son, one door closes, but many other doors will open. The important thing is whether you dare to stand up and move on or not." I buried my face in my hands, tears just kept flowing, wetting my father's shoulder. I sobbed, as if I wanted to get rid of all my weakness and self-consciousness. Father did not say anything more, just quietly squeezed my shoulder, each squeeze was regular and strong, as if giving strength to a struggling child. The next morning, when I woke up, Father had already gone to work. On my desk, there was a book about people who failed but did not give up, and a small piece of paper: "Dad believes you can do it. Get up and keep going!". At that moment, I understood that my father's silence was worth more than a thousand words of advice. His squeeze of the shoulder, his determined gaze, and that small piece of paper were all proof of unconditional trust, an encouragement that needed no fanfare.

Time is an endless stream, constantly taking away a father's strength, leaving crow's feet on his face, and turning his hair grayer day by day. But a father's love is eternal, like the full moon hanging in the sky, shining into the soul of each child.

How long has it been since you visited your father, sat beside him to listen to his life stories? Never held his hand, felt the callousness and warmth of sacrifice? Come back, be with your father - and feel the most peaceful stability in the world, before time has time to wash away those loves. Because we often only realize the true value of a shoulder, a trusting look when everything has become a memory. And at that time, even salty tears cannot fill the empty spaces...

Content: Luong Dinh Khoa

Photo: Internet Document

Graphics: Mai Huyen

Source: https://baothanhhoa.vn/e-magazine-lang-le-mot-bo-vai-259826.htm