On the porch in the late afternoon, as the rice stalks were turning to fall, I remember my grandmother sitting on a dark green plastic chair with a backrest, chewing on the betel leaves she had just prepared in the shape of a phoenix wing.
She would often gaze towards the end of the lane, watching me leave school after the three school bells rang. I would leisurely walk home, huddled around my friends, our arms around each other's shoulders on the road still muddy after the first summer rain. We would exchange cheerful greetings, then sit down on the porch at her feet, waiting to hear her stories. These stories usually began with the words, "Back then..."
Back then, at the beginning of summer, each of us would get a small paper kite made by Grandma. The kids were as excited as if they'd just gone camping, huddling around her to mix the glue and stick the bamboo together. Grandma would whittle the bamboo for the kites with a sharp, pointed sickle. Curious, we'd peek around, and secretly run home to take our mothers' straw hats to replace the bamboo sticks. The kite frames wobbled depending on each child's hands, yet they always took shape. When Mom came home from working in the fields, she'd look for her hat on the porch but couldn't find it. When she saw the kite still attached to the frame by a few strands of the hat, she'd drag us back and spank us to stop our mischief.
The kite-making paper was torn from old notebooks. Some kids took out pens and wrote down a few wishes. They asked for a summer break that lasted until the end of the year, for perfect scores on all their exams in the new semester, or for them to grow up quickly so their parents wouldn't call them children anymore... All sorts of requests were written in letters to God, without any thank-you gifts. Then, everyone craned their necks to look at their kites, waiting for God's reply. Many muttered anxiously, wondering if the kites had flown high enough to deliver their letters. Now that they're older, they just want to take back those wishes, wishing they could go back to the time when their parents called them children.
I remember flying kites in the freshly harvested fields, still fragrant with the pungent smell of straw. Each of us would find an empty tin can, wrap long lengths of fishing line or thread around it, and tie it tightly to the kite. Some white fishing line was borrowed from my father's fishing gear. Some sewing thread was from my mother's sewing supplies. There was also cement bag string from the houses under construction in the neighborhood. Each of us did it differently, as long as we could find a string to fly our kite.
The early summer breeze carried the kites high into the sky. When the kite string was taut, we would often find an old mango tree, lie down on the ground, and leisurely gaze at the sky. The kite swayed among the fluffy clouds, like a bird yearning for freedom, held captive by a string wrapped around a milk can. We both wanted the kite to be free and feared it would break and fly away. This contradiction was just like our prayers to God back then, half wanting to grow up quickly, half fearing being forced into adulthood.
It seems that in life, there are always memories recounted in the words "back then." These interwoven memories cling to me, nestled under the eaves where my grandmother whittled frames for kites. That eaves, once I grew up there, are easily recognizable amidst the hustle and bustle of society. And then one day, when I happen to see a kite in a distant sky, I suddenly imagine myself returning home to the children who grew up under that same eaves.
Source: https://www.sggp.org.vn/bay-cao-giua-troi-mua-ha-post851881.html
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