Red cotton flowers reflect on the river

March is the season change, the sun and wind are as gentle as a young girl's gaze. In the vast sky, the cotton flowers are like countless red flames. It seems that each flower keeps its own promise with time, so the four seasons take turns weaving a brilliant dream in the homeland.

I returned to the old March sky, by the riverside at the village entrance under the canopy of the cotton tree. I saw before me the figure of my grandmother and mother by the riverside, washing clothes in the rosy morning sun. Each pair of diligent hands seemed to be washing the thin rays of sunlight. The sound of laughter mixed with the rustling sound of the water. The early morning breeze tinged with mist wafted over peaceful faces. The clear river water was like a piece of mirror reflecting the heartbreaking red cotton flowers, next to the silhouettes of people from the countryside, the shape of the vicissitudes of life and death was imprinted.

Many flowers follow the wind, falling on the stone steps shimmering in the sunlight. Flowers drift along the distant waves, gently following the rhythm of the river, drifting towards the end of the mountain and the end of the beach. Each patch of flowers floats together, gentle like a poem of the country written from the peaceful river.

Some afternoons after school, I cycled to the old cotton tree near the riverbank. Sitting under the tall tree, looking at the flower rafts that looked like handkerchiefs someone had dropped on the blue river, I wondered where people got the name cotton tree flowers.

The name “rice” is so simple and familiar, evoking the warm harvests from the hands and the hard-working hearts. The name reminds the mind of those far away from home of the image of a passionate flower that lights up the sky and also silently lights up the heart, emitting a humble halo to light the way back to the origin. So that even if we reach far away to the four corners of the world, we still do not let ourselves be separated from our roots, remembering that we ourselves also grew up from the silt and straw, from the many seasons of blooming flowers.

The day my sister crossed the river was also the season of cotton flowers blooming at the old wharf. Flowers fell all over the tree roots, red like the remains of jubilant firecrackers, like the color of her red eyes. When the flower boat left the wharf and drifted downstream, she still looked back at her mother who was also sobbing and watching...

The flower garlands following the boat’s stern seemed to linger and miss the country girl who married far away. She left behind the seasons of flowers at the hometown wharf with the faithful red lipstick color, left behind the moonlight of her old youth, and the whole childhood of picking up fallen flowers to make a wreath to wear on her head, pretending to be a shy bride…

Then one day she left behind all her worries in a foreign land, returned to bury her face in her mother’s arms, when each flower season came and dyed the sky red with longing. Looking at her silhouette sitting behind combing her mother’s white hair flying, outside the waves of time silently beating across life, my heart gently echoed lullabies. Each kapok flower petal falling before me seemed to silently remind me that even though I had to endure hardships in a foreign land, I could still be lulled to sleep in the arms of my homeland, which was kind and tolerant.

The day I returned, the road was long and windy. The old wharf no longer had the silhouettes of villagers washing clothes, nor the sounds of children calling each other to cool off.

Gone are the days when I followed my mother rowing a boat to the market early in the morning, picking up cotton flowers along the way along the water drifting in the mist.

The red cotton flowers still fall all over the riverside of my hometown, covering the past that stretches out in the realm of memories. The afternoon sun reflects my tearful shadow as I bend down to pick up a fallen flower, gently holding it to my chest, listening to the scent of longing. A fishing boat carries the silent sunset on the horizon...