[E-Magazine]: A Smile in the Mist

Amidst the bustling marketplace, I suddenly encountered a smile sweeter than wild honey. That smile was the conductor of the entire chorus. Truly, it was a mountain flower, just beginning to bloom, still shy and hesitant.

Waking up one morning, how delightful it is to see fluffy white clouds drifting by the window. High above, the sky remains a deep, clear blue, as transparent as the eyes of a lazy cat curled up near the fireplace. The sea of ​​white clouds, like snow falling from the sky, envelops the mountains and forests. But even though it seems so still, if you look closely, the clouds are silently moving, changing shape with each passing moment. When the sun rises high, the sea of ​​clouds dissipates, leaving only streaks of clouds drifting swiftly like water flowing through a deep valley...

Amidst the swirling mist and towering mountains, the air is as pure as crystal. Gazing out, I see white clouds drifting at mountain-level like a river of clouds winding around the undulating mountain range. I am walking on clouds, my feet treading on them; my heart merges with the white clouds, drifting along, drifting away.

And there, the vast, deep forest stretches endlessly, the mountains dark and gloomy, layers of trees piled upon layers of rocks. The road winds through the clouds, like a thin scarf draped over the mountaintops. Only from above can one fully appreciate the precariousness and steepness of this mountain pass suspended between heaven and earth.

I went down to the market, wandering among the crowds of highland shoppers. The mustard greens were a vibrant green, still glistening with morning dew. Smoked buffalo meat sizzled over the fire, its warm aroma of mắc khén (a type of spice) filling the air. Green chilies sat bewildered in plastic bottles, stacked on top of each other. A plump, baked egg bulged beside a stick of sticky rice cooked in bamboo. Hawthorn berries ripened to a golden yellow, like the guavas of the lowlands. Cinnamon sticks, star anise, and cardamom, all a similar brownish hue, lay layered together.

The scent of the highland market is a symphony of interwoven aromas: the fragrance of herbs, the alluring scent of grilled chicken and meat from the food stalls, and the gentle aroma of colorful sticky rice wrapped in green banana leaves. It's both strange and familiar. The smiles of the highland people are genuine and honest, like the basket of persimmons nestled on the back of a highland girl.

If scents were a chorus, then the colors of the highland market would be a symphony of hues. The green of angelica and mustard greens; the bright red of carrots; the warm yellow of hawthorn and wild apples; the amber color of honey; the deep brown of cinnamon and star anise; the warm orange of persimmons; the vibrant green of young cabbage... All mixed together like an abstract painting, yet vibrant and joyful.

Highland forest products, imbued with the scent of the forest and the richness of the mountain soil, grow in a pristine environment, thus retaining the fragrance of the earth and sky, carrying the essence of mist, clouds, and springs, creating unique products.

And amidst the bustling marketplace, I suddenly encountered a smile sweeter than forest honey. That smile was the conductor of both the choir and the symphony orchestra. Truly, she was a mountain flower, just beginning to bloom, shy and bashful. She hid behind her mother's shadow, concealing her smile behind the shimmering fabric of her colorful, patterned dress from the distant stranger. That smile, in the bright mist, shone brightly amidst the vast and majestic mountains. Only half of the smile was revealed, the other half hidden behind her mother's back. The Hmong girl smiled amidst the boundless white clouds. Her smile was as white as plum and pear blossoms, her lips as rosy as the wild jasmine growing on the mountainside...

The silver bracelet gleamed brightly, the dress was a vibrant red with intricate patterns, and her eyes were as warm as a glowing charcoal fire. Had she drunk wine, or had the fire made her cheeks blush? I was mesmerized, as if dissolving into the smoke from the fire, blending into the swirling mist as I gazed at her pretty mouth, her plump pink lips slightly parted, revealing teeth as even as kernels of sticky corn roasting over a charcoal fire.

The Hmong boy, with a flute slung over his shoulder, leisurely released a ring of white smoke from his pipe into the sky, mingling with the clouds. His gaze, hidden behind the smoke, was for the girl. They were meant for each other, shy in the presence of strangers. Yes, they were children of the mountains and forests, destined to be together so that the terraced rice fields would be even greener with rice. They were together so that their children and grandchildren would still speak the Hmong language. Their misty, cloud-like smile captivated the stranger like the intoxicating effect of hawthorn wine.

They will hold hands and climb the high mountains, where even the creaking of doors takes on a fairytale quality, and the mud-walled houses still keep the fire burning brightly in the hearth. Then there will be the sound of children crying under the roof, and the sounds of comforting and caressing will once again echo in the air.

I returned home, carrying with me a smile like mist and clouds blossoming in my memories. The streets were bustling and busy at the end of the year, but I could never forget that smile.

Content by: Pham Minh Tuan

Photo: Internet source

Graphics: Mai Huyen

Source: https://baothanhhoa.vn/e-magazine-nu-cuoi-trong-suong-may-274470.htm