Harvest sunshine

(QBĐT) - Every time April comes, my heart is filled with nostalgia for the harvest seasons of the past in my hometown. The harvest season, the season of sunshine, sweat, laughter amidst the ripe rice fields, of sunburned hands nimbly harvesting rice and gathering straw. That is the season when my hometown is as beautiful as a vivid painting, full of sounds and colors.

The harvest sun is not as pale as the spring sun, nor as harsh as the summer sun in the city. The harvest sun is the sun of love, of warmth, of hope after many months of hard work. That sunlight shines on each grain of rice, shimmering like the threads of heaven falling to the ground. Everyone in my hometown is bustling and busy going to the fields, as if if they were just a little slower, the sun would take all the golden rice away.

I still clearly remember the image of my mother, wrapped in a sweat-soaked scarf, her back bent over holding each bundle of rice. Her figure was small in the middle of the vast golden fields, but she was unusually strong and sturdy. My father was at the edge of the field, holding a sickle, quickly reaping, his mouth still smiling brightly when he saw me running after him. At that time, I was still a child, only able to help with a few small tasks: gathering straw, chasing birds, or running to get water. But the joy was no less than that of an adult. I loved to roll around on the pile of new straw, inhaling the pungent yet sweet smell, and watching the ox-carts carrying rice pass by, the wheels plowing long furrows on the red dirt road.

Collecting the harvest sunshine is collecting every ray of sunlight sparkling on mother's hair, on father's worn brown shirt. It is collecting every drop of sweat falling on sunburned cheeks, every smile sparkling with joy of a bountiful harvest. It is collecting the voices calling each other in the midday sun, the sound of rice hitting each other rustling in the wind, the sound of the rice mill clattering every afternoon. All are like a harvest song, simple but imbued with love for the countryside.

Harvest season is not only the season of harvest, but also the season of reunion. After long days of hard work, when the rice is harvested, people gather around the dinner table, sharing joy together. It is a simple meal with braised fish, boiled vegetables, and a few pickled eggplants, but it is surprisingly delicious. Because it contains the salty taste of sweat, the sweetness of family love, and the overflowing taste of days of working together to overcome difficulties.

I left my hometown to go to the city to study and work, and could only return home a couple of times a year. Every time I returned during harvest season, I felt my heart being cleansed by the scent of the fields and the familiar sounds of my homeland. One time I went to the fields with my mother, and even though I could only help with a small task, her eyes lit up with joy. I knew that in her heart, as long as her children returned and went through a harvest season together, happiness would be complete.

Now, amidst the hustle and bustle of the city, whenever the sunlight begins to shine through the window, I remember the harvest sunlight of the past. I remember the warm feeling of the earth, of the sky, of human love among the vast rice fields. I remember the bare feet covered in mud, but walking steadily with smiles. I remember the hands of my mother, the hands of my father, the hands that gathered the sunlight to raise me.

Gathering the harvest sunshine, I gather my childhood, gather the beautiful days of life. There are dreams of the countryside, full of love for the homeland, lessons about labor, about love, about sharing without words but deeper than any words.

Perhaps each of us has a “harvest season” to love and remember. Each harvest season that passes not only leaves behind bags of rice filling the yard, but also sows in people’s hearts seeds of love and gratitude. No matter how far life takes us, just one sunny afternoon, a breeze carrying the scent of ripe rice, we feel our hearts sink, as if we are returning to the place where we were born and raised, the place that taught us the first lesson about labor and humanity.

Source: https://baoquangbinh.vn/van-hoa/202504/gom-nang-mua-gat-2225949/