"Son, buy me a walking stick."
Father's voice on the phone sounded hoarse. I frowned; this was already the third time this month. The walking stick I sent home last month was still as good as new.
"Dad, are you mistaken? Didn't I just send you one last month?"
"Oh... really?" Father's voice hesitated, "Maybe I'm getting senile..."
I sighed. Father was seventy-eight this year. Since his stroke last year, his health had declined significantly. I wanted to bring him to live in the city, but he insisted on staying in the countryside, saying he was used to rural life.
After hanging up, I stared out the window, lost in thought. I remembered how Father used to stand tall and walk with purpose when I was a child. During the busy farming seasons, he would go to the fields before dawn and return only at dusk. Back then, I loved clinging to his broad back, breathing in the scent of soil and sweat on him.
Dad, carry me on your back, and I'll be your walking stick!" I often teased.
"Silly boy, your dad is strong. I don't need a walking stick," Father would always reply, patting my head with a smile.
A month later, I received a call from Mother. Father had passed away, suddenly. I rushed back home overnight but didn't even get to see him one last time.
At the funeral, I mechanically greeted relatives and neighbors who came to pay their respects. It wasn't until late at night that I remembered the walking stick.
"Mom, why did Dad keep asking me for a walking stick?" I couldn't help but ask.
Mother wiped her tears and took out a cloth bundle from the cabinet. Inside were three walking sticks, neatly arranged.
"Your dad always said you were his walking stick," Mother's voice choked with emotion. "He said the walking sticks you sent were like having you by his side, supporting him..."
I was stunned, tears blurring my vision. It turned out Father didn't want a walking stick; he wanted my companionship. But I always used work as an excuse, barely returning home a few times a year.
Trembling, I reached out to touch the walking sticks, as if I could see Father slowly pacing the yard with them. In the glow of the setting sun, his figure looked so lonely.
"Dad..." I knelt before Father's portrait, sobbing uncontrollably. In the photo, Father still wore his kind smile, just like when he carried me on his back as a child.
Moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating the walking sticks. Suddenly, I understood that some forms of companionship, once missed, can never be regained. What Father wanted was never a walking stick, but for his son to come home often, to be his support, just like in childhood.
The night breeze carried the faint scent of distant rice fields. It was the land Father had toiled on his entire life, and it was also the homesickness I could never sever. I clutched the walking sticks tightly, as if trying to hold onto something, but all that remained in my grasp was endless regret and longing.