My father is a mechanical worker. His youth was associated with large hydroelectric projects, from the majestic Song Da to the resilient Yaly. People still say that anyone who has trained at those construction sites has extraordinary endurance and an iron will. My father is the same! His calloused hands can skillfully control all kinds of machinery, from excavators, bulldozers to giant rollers. The machines roar under the blazing sun, overcoming the dusty red soil, like my father's loyal companions. In our small house, my father rarely talks about those difficult days. But every time someone asks, his eyes light up with pride, the light of memories that have become a part of his life.
Every year, my father was given a new set of work clothes. But that blue worker's shirt was worn out over time, year after year. At first, the shirt was still sturdy and brand new, but over time it became soft, faded, and soaked with sweat. There were places where the shoulders of the shirt became thinner, as a witness to the days when my father bent his back under the hot sun. I remember one time I was curious: "Why don't you wear a new shirt to look nice?". My father just smiled gently: "This shirt is very durable, it can be worn as long as it's not torn." Thinking back on that simple saying, I now understand my father's philosophy of life: simple, resilient, and indifferent to external frivolities.
My childhood grew up with the familiar smell of oil and engine noise. After school in the afternoons, I often ran to the alley to welcome my father home. My father parked his old motorbike on the porch, took off his worn-out helmet, and carefully hung his green shirt on a hook behind the kitchen door. I can’t remember all of my father’s hugs or the words he said, but I remember very clearly the smell of his shirt. The distinctive smell of sweat, of engine oil, of a long day of hard work. That scent seeped deep into my memory, becoming the smell of peace, of protective arms.
I still remember when I was six years old, my father brought me a special gift: a tiny wheelbarrow, welded by himself from scrap iron in the workshop. The wheelbarrow was not elaborately painted, the wheels were a bit crooked, the handle was rough. But to me at that time, it was a priceless treasure. I proudly rode that wheelbarrow around the yard, through every corner, carrying dolls, books, showing it off to all the children in the neighborhood. Whenever he had free time, my father would sit quietly watching us play, his eyes shining with simple, warm joy. Perhaps, my father's greatest happiness at that time was just seeing his children happy and peaceful.
Later, when I learned to ride a bicycle, my father always stood behind me, holding the saddle for me. "Just keep pedaling, I'll hold it," his voice was still warm and steady. I didn't know when he let go, letting me learn to walk on my own. It was only when I turned around and saw my father standing from afar, smiling and watching, that I broke down. Not because I was afraid of falling, but because for the first time, I clearly felt the trust and stability that my father had given me, in a silent way.
After leaving the construction site, my father was transferred to the Tractor Station near my house. My father drove a road roller, tirelessly turning the rough, rocky country roads into new, hard-paved silk strips. The locals affectionately called my father "Mr. Road Roller" because he was such a talented driver. My father was never proud of that, but I always felt an indescribable pride. To me, my father was the best, most diligent, and most steadfast worker.
During the years I studied away from home, every time I returned to my hometown, the first image I looked for was still my father's blue shirt, neatly hung in the same place. The shirt had faded, with some frayed threads, but it still gave me a strangely warm feeling, as if my father's hand was always by my side. One time it rained and I didn't have time to bring my shirt, so my father rummaged through the closet for an old blue shirt, telling me to wear it temporarily. The shirt was loose and the fabric was rough, but when I put it on, I felt like I was enveloped by a peaceful, protective sky.
Now, my father has retired. Every morning, he still wakes up early, watering the plants, fixing the old electric fan, and cleaning the rusty tools. That blue shirt no longer follows him to the construction site, but it is still hung respectfully in the closet. My mother said that my father keeps it as a souvenir. As for me, every time I open the closet and look at the shirt, it seems like a slow-motion film of my father appears before my eyes, vivid and true to every detail.
People often compare fatherly love to mountains, to the vast ocean. But for me, fatherly love exists in every stitch, every oil stain on my shirt, every afternoon my father quietly picks me up from school, every time he braves the rain to fix the leaky porch. Fatherly love is not noisy, not ostentatious. It is silent, quiet, but steadfast and solid, like my father's worn-out green shirt that never tears.
There were some afternoons when I got off work, in the middle of a bustling crowd, I suddenly saw a worker wearing the same green shirt as my father years ago, my heart was filled with a deep longing. I wanted to run over and call out "Dad" loudly, even though I knew that he was not my father. That green shirt in my mind will forever be a sacred image and nothing can replace it.
And that green shirt, is forever a love that has never been expressed in words...
Hello love, season 4, theme "Father" officially launched from December 27, 2024 on four types of press and digital infrastructure of Radio - Television and Binh Phuoc Newspaper (BPTV), promising to bring to the public the wonderful values of sacred and noble fatherly love. |
Source: https://baobinhphuoc.com.vn/news/19/170918/chiec-ao-xanh-cua-ba
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