Dried coconuts falling in the wind in the garden.

Báo Thanh niên•21/01/2024

The dry, arid weather of April and May gives way to the muddy rains of September, and the biting cold of December approaches. At night, amidst the flapping wings of bats searching for ripe fruit, there's the sound of dry coconuts falling in the wind in the garden. My mother would tell me who would go and gather the coconuts so she could make oil for the Tet holiday. I don't know how much she slept at night, but whatever she said, I always picked up exactly that many coconuts the next morning.

My childhood was filled with such simple joys.

After the windy nights, the dry coconuts in the corner of the house grew more and more numerous. Some had fallen in February or March, lying deep inside, and by the time Mom brought them out, they had quietly turned green. Dad planted them, and the garden grew thicker, following the typical mixed-crop garden style—planting whatever trees were available, filling any empty space. On the chilly morning of the eleventh, Mom would tell the siblings to bring the coconuts out to the yard. Dad would cut one down, and we'd share the flesh. Mom would use a sheet of corrugated iron with many tiny holes to grind each piece of coconut flesh to extract the coconut milk. When we found coconuts that had fallen longer, with their pure white, sweet, and juicy inner parts, the siblings would be filled with excitement.

Then my mother poured all the coconut milk into a large copper pot, using the same spoons she had just peeled to light the fire and cook the oil. When the coconut shells were completely burnt and the coconut kernels were glowing with charcoal, the oil began to simmer, its fragrant aroma filling the air. My mother constantly stirred to prevent the bottom of the pot from burning, ensuring the oil that floated to the surface was neither too pale nor too dark, a beautiful amber color. She skimmed off the oil and poured it into various bottles of different sizes, the oil reaching the perfect consistency and a light yellow hue. After filtering out all the oil, she added a little molasses to the coconut mixture to create "coconut candy," so delicious that even now, just remembering that peaceful scene, I feel as if the taste of my childhood still lingers on my tongue.

The bottles of palm oil, tightly sealed with dried banana leaves, would solidify into white wax the very next day in the biting cold. My mother carefully stored them in the kitchen cupboard, like a treasure. And she always set aside one bottle to give to the old woman next door. The old woman didn't use the oil for cooking, but to apply to her hair, which had turned gray from the wind and frost!

Every time my mother cooked rice, she would place a bottle of coconut oil near the stove. When the rice pot was boiling over and overflowing, she would toss it down into the ashes, and the wax in the bottle would melt away in the heat. The coconut oil, once heated, had a distinctive aroma. So, every afternoon, as the smoke from the stove drifted over the thatched roof, carrying its lingering fragrance like a signal to come home for dinner, we cowherd children would call out to each other to herd the cows back home.

Through countless seasons of sun, rain, frost, and dew, the time came for us to leave home, where the dry coconuts in the corner of the garden still silently fell in the wind. Time passed like a fleeting breeze, and eventually, our father's and mother's shoulders grew thin like wisps of smoke, leaving the dry coconuts to grow green again without anyone to gather them. When the new rural road was being built, we were willing to donate any amount of garden land, but we had to cut down the old coconut trees. We were filled with poignant memories. Though we know nothing lasts forever, some things that have become a part of our childhood memories are hard to forget. And sometimes, returning home to the old house with our father and mother, in the dead of night, we can almost still hear the sound of the dry coconuts falling in the wind...

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