[Emagazin]: Summer days pass by

When the cicadas sing on the canopy of the tamarind tree, it is the time when the sunset gradually closes its eyes and drops its curtains. I have gone through many summers like that, to feel my heart flutter when I remember the nostalgia as poignant as the music of the countryside afternoon, with the clear blue sky.

Mother carried grass back from the dike, her shadow stretched out on the slope halfway up the hill following her quick steps. Mother turned left onto the dirt road, her back drenched in sweat from her cloth shirt. Grandma from the kitchen carried a basket of boiled sweet potatoes. The whole family gathered together, I told her about the last days of school in the third grade, the fallen phoenix flowers turning the schoolyard red. The phoenix flowers burned every summer, like the longing for school years and the longing for years.

In the third grade, I had just turned eight, and often went to Ha's house next to mine, playing with the neighborhood kids until dark. Ha picked jackfruit leaves to make money, Nhung prepared a toy stall to sell. Some young bricks were ground smooth to make rice, and Duy molded pots and pans from dried clay. Duy was clumsy but skillful, the lifeless clay clumps through his hands all took shape, into blocks. How could I forget his squinting eyes every time he smiled, Duy said that when he grew up he would ask Ha to be his wife. Ha was pretty with big round eyes and a clear smile, nodding in agreement; Duy happily molded a flower from clay for Ha; Ha bought the flower with all the money from the jackfruit leaves she had just picked in the garden.

Early summer sunlight seemed brighter, clearly illuminating the dew drops hanging on the tips of the grass. We kids were off school, so we invited each other to the pond next to Mr. Ban’s house, where there was a sparse fence, to catch dragonflies to let them bite our navels and swim freely. Ha said dragonflies were very rare, whoever caught them would grow up to become a fairy. I believed Ha’s words, so I tiptoed on my bare feet, the sunlight shining on my rosy cheeks, trying to catch the dragonfly that had just landed on the swaying fence. The surface of the pond rippled, and the dragonfly flew away. I regretted that it was not within my two fingers to catch, my eyes following the thin, swaying wings.

Mother said dragonflies flying low means rain, flying high means sunshine, flying in between means shade. I grew up listening to the folk songs my mother sang, the endless lullabies beside the hammock. The fairy tale has a genie and a fairy who grants miracles every night, and a gentle Tam who crawls out of a star fruit. Sunny days eventually lead to rainy days, summer rain pouring down on the white horizon. For a long time after that, I remember those rainy days, wondering why there was so much thunder and lightning in the past. Mother went back from picking beans, and got caught in a rainstorm, drenched all over. I sat with my grandmother cooking a pot of fragrant sticky rice, in the kitchen filled with soot.

That day, she asked me: “Will Na let me get married? I’m still young, I’ll come back to visit Na after I get married.” I didn’t know how to be sad, so I nodded in agreement to make her happy. The old roof tiles were washed away by the falling rain, the dry straws tried to burn themselves into ashes to turn into fire. I walked along the whole summer to remember, to giggle to complete my childhood.

The day my mother got married, the summer rain tore the river apart, the ferry swayed as it left the dock. I stared blankly after my mother, unable to be happy, sadness welled up in my eyes and lips, and I was about to cry. My mother missed her daughter so much that she often came to visit me, her shadow cast long on the dike, leading the bike as the sunset slowly fell. My whole family sat by the warm kitchen, with a fire burning from dry straw. The story of life was unpredictable, the hardships were imprinted on my mother's calloused hands. She held back a sigh, the summer afternoon just drifted away; I hummed and recited the lesson from the textbook and showed my mother my 9-point literature exam. My mother smiled gently, caressing my chubby cheeks, my eight years of age had gradually passed...

Royal poinciana blossoms red with the seasons, and we grow up with time. Nhung - my old friend who used to play house and play with clay; she followed her parents to the new economic zone far away, never having the chance to meet again. Ha did not continue her studies but got married on the other side of the river. That day Duy cried, blaming Ha for not keeping her promise. Duy was always a childish friend, never growing up even though he was now over thirty years old. Duy could never understand the story of her life, his tears were always salty because he had tasted all the bitterness.

Summer has come again, the cicadas' chirping calls back to the past, a time to remember. The river carries heavy silt, mother no longer struggles to go back and forth between the two hometowns, the shadow no longer casts long on the dyke slope in the sunny afternoon? I grew up from the chirping of my friends, from the warm kitchen filled with my grandmother's teachings; and the afternoons waiting for my mother from afar, to feel my heart flutter like the sunny summer.

Content: Thanh Nga

Photo: Quyet Thang TH Internet

Graphics: Mai Huyen

Source: https://baothanhhoa.vn/emagazin-nhung-ngay-he-troi-253193.htm