Leaning on the second-floor balcony, I looked down at the familiar yard, the place that holds the late mornings of school, the clumsy times of skipping class, or the naive quarrels and then wrestling each other with an ice cream stick. Everything seemed to have just happened yesterday, yet we had to officially close our school days.
In that moment of intersection, Minh's red eyes, his best friend for three years of high school, seemed to speak for the worries that both were carrying in their hearts. We were silent together, understanding that from tomorrow, the path we two would take would no longer be in the same direction. I would go to the city to pursue long dreams, while Minh would stay in his hometown and choose a more peaceful direction. The boundary between school age and the adult world began to be clearly drawn.
That afternoon, when the sun began to fade, the two of us invited each other back to the deserted classroom. The rows of tables and chairs were neatly arranged, on the blackboard there were still white chalk marks of the homeroom teacher's message about living beautifully when youth is still ahead. Here, Minh took out a small iron box with two pieces of torn paper, suggesting that both of us write a wish before saying goodbye. Although I felt this game was somewhat childish, I still carefully and meticulously wrote the wish that ten years later we would still be friends who understand each other. Minh kept his wish secret, carefully put both pieces of paper in the box and promised that exactly ten years later - when both were old enough to know who they were in life - they would open it together. The box was then carefully buried under the old phoenix tree behind the schoolyard, along with a vow to return to the milestone of ten years.
Time then passed quickly to the point of dizziness. The bustling urban life with the cycle of work, deadlines and new relationships swept me away. Minh was also busy with his own worries in his hometown. The modern phone seemed unable to keep us from having long conversations like before, sometimes every few months there was a message asking about us. However, every time the sound of cicadas calling in the summer echoed in June, my heart ached, nostalgic for the old phoenix tree and the iron box lying silently under the deep layer of soil.
Right on the day I turned 28, a short message from Minh asking about whether to return to the old school made the flame of memories burn again. Returning to the old school on a June afternoon, although the scenery had changed somewhat, the old phoenix tree was still there, spreading its branches and leaves covering a courtyard. Minh had also been waiting for a long time, looking more haggard but his eyes still had the familiar features of 18 years old.
We together dug out the rusty iron box due to time to get out two stained pieces of paper. Opening Minh's piece of paper, I was stunned when I read the words he wrote ten years ago: hoping that ten years later he can still stand by my side under this phoenix tree. At that moment, all the beautiful memories of the fierce school days filled our minds. We realized that, even though we had changed, even though we had taken different paths and faced countless worries of the adult world, we still kept our promise from that year.
The brilliant age of 18 has receded, but the promise under the old phoenix tree is still a peaceful support. It reminds me that amidst the myriad changes of life, I once had a complete youth, once had a sincere friendship and once believed in things worth preserving for a lifetime.
