My father’s luggage consisted of a small backpack containing old clothes, a pair of rubber sandals, a rice bowl, and a handkerchief embroidered with a pair of doves in red thread. In particular, the small, worn-out “War Diary” was cherished and kept in his breast pocket by my father. On rainy days, as if waking up the sleepless night, my father would take out the worn-out “War Diary” to look at, flipping through each page to recall old memories. Every time we saw my father do that, my brothers and I would curiously observe and discuss with each other.

Illustration photo.

With the curiosity of childhood, whenever my father went somewhere, we would secretly open the cupboard to take out the diary and compete to read it and discuss it. Once, my mother told my father: “If the diary is not torn, let the children read it, why do you keep it so tightly? Only when the children read it will they understand the sacrifices and losses of the previous generation, to live a worthy life, my brother!” At first, my father did not agree, because he was afraid of damaging it, but later he brought the diary to us. It was in his neat handwriting, writing about the days he and his comrades participated in the battle. The malaria, the hastily cooked bamboo shoot soup. And the endless homesickness, my father wrote it all down in it.

Seeing us reading, my mother was also happy and let us satisfy our curiosity. Since then, life has become more and more modern, on our bookshelf there are very beautiful and expensive books, but my brothers and I still consider our father's diary as a treasure in the house. The smoke of war could not defeat my father, but the pain in his chest took him to a faraway land. The "War Diary" is still in the corner of the cupboard as a reminder of the time when my father lived and fought hard. I grew up, followed my father's path, and joined the army. Every time I have the opportunity to return to the simple tiled house, flipping through memories of my father, my heart is filled with emotion.

HOANG HANH