Oh… I miss the old hammock

Sometimes, amidst the hustle and bustle of the city, my heart suddenly yearns for a moment of silence. An afternoon without the blaring of car horns, without a busy schedule, just the gentle breeze through the leaves and the chirping of birds calling each other back to their nests. At times like these, memories take me back to the old porch, where the old hammock swings between two pillars, where children used to lie and listen to the wind tell their childhood stories.

Sometimes, when the afternoon falls gently on the mossy tiled roof, the bamboo fence rustles in the late afternoon breeze, and the scent of the straw stove lingers somewhere. In that quiet moment, amidst the hustle and bustle of life, my heart sinks, remembering a corner of the old porch, where an old hammock once swayed to the rhythm of time.

The old hammock - not just an ordinary object - is a piece of the soul of the countryside, a place to preserve the pure days of childhood, a gentle call of loved ones who have passed away. And then in the hustle and bustle of life, just a moment of thinking about the old hammock, the heart calms down, as if touching the deepest, most beautiful part of memory.

Illustration: HOANG DANG

The hammock in those days was the thread connecting people and the earth, between the rustic nature and the childish heart. The two ends were firmly tied to the black ironwood poles that had been polished over the years, creaking and swinging, every summer afternoon like a lullaby from the mother earth. The hammock wings were attached to the lullaby like an invisible connection. I clearly remember the sound of the hammock creaking in the hot afternoons. Grandmother or mother often lay there fanning herself, softly singing the lullaby: "Au o... I dare anyone to lie in a hammock without swaying. I dare anyone to meet an old friend without looking", "The bee that makes honey loves flowers. The fish that swims loves water, the birds that sing love the sky"...

Continuing the generation of grandmothers and mothers lulling their children to sleep; the lullaby has become the quintessence of folklore, the hammock has become the heritage of the countryside as a continuing source of life. Those gentle, deep, affectionate melodies, I do not understand and do not need to understand the content. Because when a mother lulls her child, she is also lulling her own heart. That song, her voice, seems to seep into her blood and flesh, into every dream of her childhood.

Lying in the hammock, I gently kicked the hammock to make it swing, my eyes looking through the gaps between the leaves to see the clouds drifting, the birds chirping from branch to branch. On the other side of the hedge, the sound of chickens clucking at noon, the sound of buffalo gongs echoing from the riverbank, all like a rustic symphony, simple but touching. The hammock is where I listen to stories of the old village, stories of the banyan tree at the front of the communal house, stories of my grandparents planting rice in the fields when they were young. It is where I hide my childhood joys and sorrows, where my father sits to reweave a torn hammock, my mother takes the opportunity to lie down after going to the market early, her hair still smelling of the sun.

I still remember what my father said, the day the family received the death notice of my uncle, a martyr fighting against the Americans, the most precious keepsake that my grandmother left behind was a hammock made of dark green parachute fabric. That hammock was a part of my uncle's memories, a part of the flesh and blood of the country. The hammock followed him throughout the years of marching on the Truong Son road, temporarily hung between two tree trunks, sleeping in the days when bombs fell and bullets exploded. The hammock was woven from dark green parachute, soaked in sweat and forest dust, through many sleepless nights, many bouts of jungle fever, and even the dreams of his youth.

When the war was over, the soldier’s legacy returned to his hometown, and the village boy’s memories appeared in the hammock hanging under the porch like a souvenir. The hammock was still cool to the touch, smelling of the sweat of my grandfather, then my parents, a lifetime of hard work. It continued to swing on peaceful summer afternoons, nurturing the childhood souls of my siblings and I. Every time I lay down on the hammock, I not only felt the softness of an old object, but also felt the breath of the ancient forest, of the fierce years that the previous generation had gone through.

Growing up, following the long journeys, the villagers left their villages, left the old hammocks, carrying their dreams and memories. Now, no matter how far I go, my heart still flutters whenever I hear the sound of a hammock somewhere. That hammock may be worn out, may have been replaced by a comfortable sofa in an urban apartment, but the feelings it holds are irreplaceable.

Then the years passed, I grew up, left the village to study, to work, and wandered around the city. The house no longer had wooden poles to hang hammocks, instead there were cushioned chairs and air conditioners, but there was a void in my heart that nothing could fill, that was the nostalgia for the old hammocks, the smell of the countryside after the rain, the lullabies of my grandmother, the slow, gentle pace of life like the river in front of the alley.

In the afternoon in the countryside, the sun spreads golden on the surface of the pond with floating duckweed, the gentle wind carries the scent of new straw through the row of areca nuts in front of the alley. In that peaceful space, I remember the old hammock, the hammock hanging quietly under the red-tiled porch, where my peaceful childhood was imprinted in the arms of my grandmother and mother. The old hammock is no longer under the old porch, but it still swings in my heart like a part of my memory, a touch of the countryside soul that flows forever in my heart, gentle and enduring like my own homeland.

Source: https://baodanang.vn/channel/5433/202505/a-oi-thuong-canh-vong-xua-4006291/