Old village well… On hot sunny days, when it is hot, the well is only a little less, the sudden showers fill the well. The well surface is paved with fired bricks. The afternoon was full of laughter and laughter from the women, mothers, sisters, brothers and sisters carrying the laundry. The yard of the well is always wet, with moss on the edge of the yard. One day, my aunt went to the well to fetch water, avoiding her mother who was washing clothes, so she went close to the edge of the yard when she was pounced by a frog in the innocent laughter of her friends. I fell a few times, peeling off a large patch of moss, it was very painful, but I still tried because I was afraid that my mother would worry, tomorrow my feet will be scratched and swollen. However, only a few days of moss covered as if not wanting to leave the well. So on rainy days, my father wouldn’t let me and my sister go to the well, just afraid that the moss would hurt the kids. On a clear sunny morning, the friends gathered together to the well to pick moss to make fighting chickens. Crisp, carefree laughter from time to time. The soft, cool moss has made many children slip and fall, their foreheads are swollen, their clothes are covered with moss. One day, he was scolded again because he did not obey, escaped from napping to go out to the well to play with his friends, chased around the well and then stepped on the moss lying on the ground, his face was smeared but still forced a smile to cover the problem. pain. Growing up, we left the village to study, and then got married in a faraway place. Haven’t visited the village well for a long time. The smooth paved road replaces the old dirt road. Tap water, pump wells in every house should have a sad well. There was also a time when the power went out, the house was not ready yet, so I went to the well to draw a few buckets of water for temporary use. How do children now feel the cool water when bathing in the well? Then go away from the village well! Well, no one does laundry anymore. The moss died a lot, each patch was curled on the ground. When I return to my hometown, I often go to the well to draw water to wash my face, drop the bucket down, there are no dark green mosses mixed in the clear blue water. The way back is no longer the path of the grass. I don’t understand why in the past they liked to go back and forth so that the grass was filled with nostalgia, a reminder, a silly love when standing blankly looking at each other, meeting those eyes as clear as well water but the grass without pinning more wishes… There are afternoons when we sit down to remove the grass and let it go with the wind… Now the old neighborhood has changed. The road no longer has a place for grass to grow. The children of the past are now like birds flying everywhere. Someone flew to the western sky. Everyone is busy with life. I don’t know if they think like me. I owe this land a lot, a place that is always full of laughter, a place where I always receive the fullest love, a peaceful place where anyone who goes far will return. This afternoon it was very windy, roaming with a bicycle to the dyke to receive the fresh and peaceful air of the homeland. Missing the grass flowers sewn by the roadside, remembering the moss-stoned chickens, remembering the innocent laughter of friends, remembering someone else’s eyes… Roundabout and then back. Go to the well to borrow a bucket to wash your face, slowly feel the water seep into the cool skin. Looking down at the well, well, there was still a beautiful little moss trying to cling to the strong ferns. I was dumbfounded… Well, the moss still exists there. Glittering smile, look at yourself to see the moss at that time, why remember it strangely.

Wells of Phu Ly Bac village (Thieu Trung commune, Thieu Hoa) were restored. The noisy city, the hustle and bustle of living deeply imprinted on every alley, street corner, next to the shops… The feeling of wobble when the day is dry makes me miss my hometown, my childhood bareheaded, barefoot, and smoke. Burning fields with the smell of straw, remembering the wells of the country’s cool, clean water… I miss my grandparents’ house at the far end of the village, in front of a vast rice field. My parents were busy at work, so I often stayed with my grandparents, so my childhood was full of running sessions with my neighbors picking figs, mangoes, going to the fields to wade through water, catching grasshoppers, locusts, and pears. chicken grass in the field… But perhaps the most memorable are the summer days, after running and shouting and screaming, they all pulled together to the well at the end of the village to compete with each other to drink cool and sweet sips of water. … Until now, when I think back, I still imagine myself touching that water, enjoying the taste of the old days. I remember the yard of the well was very large, paved with red bricks. Around the well are some bamboo bushes wrapped tightly by vines. In the season, the vines bloom with purple petals on the background of cool green leaves. In the windy afternoons, the bamboo stalks swayed and creaked, the bamboo leaves swayed and then dropped into the well yard very gently. The well is as big as a small pond, paved with large, smooth stones from the well mouth leading down to the water surface. The village well is the most crowded when it is dark, the villagers come home from work to take a bath and then carry water to fill the jar in front of the house to cook. In the evening, boys and girls in the village invite each other to the well to play and chat. After a long day of labor, the village girls have the opportunity to release their long hair, fragrant with the smell of locust, in the wind. I have 6 cousins. Summer is coming, when cousins ​​are sent to their grandparents’ house, the days when the small house is full of laughter, chirping, arguing of children, the sound of grandparents scolding their grandchildren. During the day, we often climb guava, climb star fruit to pick down the fruit, add a little salt and then eat it deliciously. When they were bored, they invited each other to the village well to drink water to fill their stomachs, then play umbrellas to eat mandarins, great-grandchildren… Grandfather used to use water from the village well to cook, make green tea, and sometimes sweet-smelling jasmine tea at the top of his lips. . The kettles are like an excuse to connect the wartime story, the story in the village… of my grandfather and his peers at the chess games in the alley. As for the children, we sat on cots waiting for her to come back from the market with bags of popsicles, sheets of sugar cane, and sometimes a few crispy rice cakes with the smell of sesame… In the summer afternoons to hide from sleep, we ran to the well to play, watch our faces reflected in the well and then laugh. Someone naughty picked up a few small pebbles and dropped them into the well, watching the waves of water spreading and disappearing without stopping. Then we dreamed and told each other about our future wishes, which is to go everywhere, do great things, become great people… We grew up, and the village urbanized and concreted everywhere. I regret and feel pity when the old trees are gradually uprooted, the village well is no longer there because there is clean water. Floating with the month of May, hardened with many emotions, only the nostalgia for the countryside, the village well, the childhood innocence is still intact. I still miss the idyllic village well filled with joy in memory. That place has the moonlight shining in the deep well, illuminating every corner of my beloved village, the moonlight following me into my summer night dreams and illuminating my soul every time I find myself playing with… back to my childhood, back to the well full of dreams at that time.