母亲床头的木笛

我一直不知道，
為什麼母亲当年会买下那几支木笛。

在达拉斯的家中，她总喜欢把木笛放在床头。
黄昏时分，她常独自坐在窗前，轻轻吹奏。
那笛声低沉而悠远，像风从很远很远的地方吹来，带着一丝淡淡的乡愁。

那时年轻的我，并不明白。
我不知道她吹的，是离乡的孤独；
不知道她怀念的，是再也回不去的故土；
更不知道，一位经歷战乱与漂泊的母亲，把多少思念都藏进了那细长的木笛之中。

也许，
她只是想让自己的心，有一个可以停靠的地方。

岁月流逝，人生如梦。
如今，母亲与父亲，早已长眠在华府波多马克河畔。

每当我来到那片安静的墓园，远望波多马克河水缓缓流过，我总会想起母亲当年吹奏木笛的身影。
河风掠过树梢时，我彷彿又听见那熟悉的笛声，在遥远岁月裡轻轻回荡。

父亲一生坚毅，母亲一生温柔。
他们带着一家人，走过动盪年代，跨越千山万水，最后在异乡落地生根。
而我，也在人生漫长旅途中，才渐渐明白——

原来母亲买下那些木笛，
并不只是因為喜欢音乐。

那是她对故乡的思念，
对青春的怀念，
也是她对人生风雨最安静的倾诉。

如今木笛仍在，
只是吹笛的人，已在天边。

而那悠长的笛声，
却永远留在我的心中。

The Wooden Flutes by My Mother’s Bedside

I never truly understood
why my mother bought several wooden flutes so many years ago.

In our home in Dallas, she always kept them beside her bed.
At dusk, when the evening light quietly filled the room, she would sit alone by the window and softly play them.

The sound of the flute was gentle and distant,
like a breeze drifting from another world,
carrying a quiet sorrow and an unspoken longing.

Back then, I was too young to understand.
I did not know she was playing the loneliness of exile.
I did not know she was remembering a homeland she could never fully return to.
And I certainly did not realize how much pain, memory, and hope a mother could hide within the sound of a simple wooden flute.

Perhaps the flute was the only place
where her wandering heart could finally rest.

Time moves on like a river.

Today, my mother and father rest together beside the Potomac River in Washington, D.C.
Whenever I think of that peaceful riverside, I can almost hear her flute again, carried softly by the wind through the trees.

My father lived with strength and determination.
My mother lived with quiet grace and tenderness.
Together they carried our family through war, displacement, hardship, and immigration, building a new life far from the land where they were born.

Only now, after walking through so many years of my own life, do I finally understand:

My mother did not buy those wooden flutes simply because she loved music.

They were her memories of home.
Her longing for lost years.
Her silent conversation with a life filled with sacrifice and distance.

The wooden flutes may still remain,
but the one who played them has long since departed.

Yet the sound of her music
will forever echo in my heart.