Recently, my second sister's mango tree planted in the yard bore fruit by itself. She took pictures of the first mangoes of the season to show off. She said she didn't expect to live to see the day the mango tree bore fruit. That's right, when she planted the mango tree, she was 84 years old, now that the tree bears fruit, she's 86. Then she felt sad again: I don't know how many more mango seasons she can pick. I teased her: Are you afraid of dying again? She laughed loudly on the phone.
There are three children in the family, I am the only son but I followed my wife's hometown to the city to make a living. The temple should have been handed over to my husband and I to look after the incense, but because it was far away, I handed it over to my sister. When my sister's child grew up, she handed it over to my nephew. I said handed it over, but my nephew and I did not live in the temple but built a house next door. Every morning, we just went over to clean, burn incense, and water the trees in the yard. The yard was full of commemorative trees. On the left gable, my father used to plant a tamarind tree, which has now become an ancient tamarind tree, its canopy covering the entire temple. Behind the house is a row of coconut trees that have been there since my great-grandfather's time. Strangely, after so many years, they still stand tall, and the fruit is still heavy, but because it is so tall, no one bothers to pick it. When the fruit is dry, it falls off by itself. My second sister picked the coconuts that were still edible, peeled them, grated the rice, and squeezed the coconut juice to cook sweet soup for her grandchildren. Then she planted a row of young trees along the front fence. She said: Never mind, let the little ones have fruit to drink. Really, the coconut trees she planted are now nearly ten years old, each stall is full of fruit, when the kids get tired of drinking, they sell them to buy candy they like. In front of the porch, when I came back to celebrate a death anniversary after I retired, I stayed for a month, I bought a purple barringtonia tree to plant, and added a few rose bushes to make it more beautiful. Probably suitable for the soil and climate, purple barringtonia gives fresh pink flowers every summer. And rose bushes give flowers all year round, beautifying the house and making it less lonely.
Once a year, the family welcomes their children and grandchildren from far away to gather for ancestral worship. Ancestral worship. The food is spread from the inside of the house to the front of the house, filling up the hallway and the yard. Every time there is ancestral worship, the sisters, aunts, and nieces and nephews gather together to prepare and cook from the morning of the previous day until noon the next day. After paying respects to their ancestors, the whole family gathers to eat, drink, chat, and sing. Thanks to the ancestral worship, relatives can meet, know each other, talk, and strengthen the bond of love. If there were no ancestral worship, each person would live for himself, and the descendants born later would not know their brothers and sisters.
Before I was still working, I only returned home every year on the occasion of my ancestors' death anniversaries, my father's death anniversaries and my mother's death anniversaries. For other death anniversaries, my second sister would take care of the offerings, I would just send her a little money as a contribution to the offerings. Since I retired and became a billionaire, I have been able to return home more often. Sometimes I stay for a whole month to visit relatives. The air in the countryside is cool, airy, and the peaceful scenery makes my soul feel relaxed and comfortable. I also want to move back home to live alone, "even a dead fox turns its head back to the mountains", when everyone gets old, they long for their homeland. The only problem is that my wife has to stay in the city to take care of the grandchildren for our two children, the situation of the husband in one place and the wife in another cannot last forever. So I only stay for a month and then have to return to the city to live with my wife and children. The responsibility of being a husband and a father is now added to the responsibility of being a grandfather, it is very heavy.
The last time she called to say that the house was in a terrible state, the sisters would have to pool money to re-tile the roof, reinforce the beams and columns, otherwise the termites would eat everything. When she told me, I immediately returned to my hometown. Then we had a family meeting, a clan meeting. Everyone contributed a little money, those who didn't have money contributed labor. The renovation work lasted a whole month. The house was as spacious and clean as before. To mark this important occasion, I bought a Thai jackfruit tree and an avocado tree to plant in the front yard so that later on it would have a shade canopy. Everyone laughed and asked why I was planting jackfruit and avocado trees when I was old. Old people are like ripe bananas, planting trees that bear fruit quickly, who would plant perennial trees? I laughed and replied: Planting trees is to remember the important day, and the fruit is for future generations to enjoy, I am old, I have to plant something that lives longer than me so that later generations can eat the fruit and remember their fathers and uncles who went before. Since then I have not heard anyone laugh or gossip anymore.
After a month, I said goodbye to my beloved temple, goodbye to my hometown to return to the city. The day I left, the purple flowers were blooming brightly in a corner of the porch, and the rose bushes were showing off their bright pink color under the summer sun. I walked out the gate but my feet didn’t want to move, didn’t want to leave this place, I stood there longingly looking at the temple, at the tamarind tree, the mango tree, the purple flowers and the rose bushes. Then I looked at the newly planted jackfruit and avocado trees in front of the yard. Later, I wonder if I will be able to come back to visit them again, they will probably be very grown by then.
Seeing me standing there in a daze, refusing to get in the car, my nephew patted my shoulder and whispered: Don't worry, I'll come back here again and again, to eat countless more avocado and jackfruit seasons. I laughed: I just hope to live to eat the lucky fruit season, my dear. When I said that, I was very aware of the impermanence of human life, it's here and then it's gone. But it's okay, as long as the trees are still green, they will remind future generations of those who came before, those who planted the trees so that they can pick the fruit today. That's enough happiness.
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