Gathering the sunshine of the harvest season

(QBĐT) - Every time April arrives, my heart is filled with a deep longing for the harvest seasons of yesteryear in my hometown. The harvest season, the season of sunshine, sweat, laughter echoing across the ripening rice fields, of sun-tanned hands swiftly harvesting rice and gathering straw. It was a season when my hometown was as beautiful as a vibrant painting, brimming with sounds and colors.

The harvest sun isn't the pale yellow of spring sunshine, nor the harsh heat of summer in the city. The harvest sun is the sun of love, of abundance, of hope after months of hard work. That sunlight bathes each ripe ear of rice, glistening like threads of silk from the heavens. My villagers are all bustling about, rushing to the fields, as if a moment's delay would mean the sun would carry away all the golden rice.

I vividly remember my mother, wrapped in a sweat-soaked checkered scarf, her back hunched over as she carried bundles of rice stalks. Her small figure stood amidst the vast golden fields, yet she appeared remarkably strong and resilient. My father, at the edge of the field, sickle in hand, swiftly harvested, his face beaming with a smile as he watched me scurrying after him. Back then, I was too young to help with a few small tasks: gathering straw, chasing away birds, or fetching water. But the joy was no less than that of an adult. I loved rolling around on the freshly harvested straw, inhaling its pungent yet subtly fragrant scent, and watching the ox carts loaded with rice pass by, their wheels plowing long furrows in the red dirt road.

Gathering the harvest sunshine means gathering every sparkling ray of light on my mother's hair, on my father's worn brown áo dài (traditional Vietnamese dress). It means gathering every drop of sweat on sun-tanned cheeks, every smile sparkling with the joy of a bountiful harvest. It means gathering the shouts and calls in the midday sun, the rustling of rice stalks in the wind, the clicking sound of threshing rice in the evening. All of it is like a harvest song, simple yet deeply imbued with the love of the countryside.

The harvest season is not just about reaping the crop, but also about reunion. After long, hard days, when the rice is harvested, people gather around the evening meal, sharing their joy. It's a simple meal with braised fish, boiled vegetables, and a few pickled eggplants, but it tastes surprisingly delicious. Because it contains the salty taste of sweat, the sweet taste of family affection, and the richness of months spent together overcoming hardship.

I left my hometown to study and work in the city, only able to return home a couple of times a year. Each time I come back during harvest season, I feel as if my heart is cleansed by the scent of the countryside and the familiar sounds of my homeland. Once, I went to the fields with my mother; even though I only helped with a small task, her eyes lit up with joy. I know that in her heart, just the return of her children and sharing a harvest season together is enough to make her happy.

Now, amidst the hustle and bustle of city life, whenever the first rays of sunlight appear on the windowpane, I am reminded of the harvest season of yesteryear. I remember the warm feeling of the earth, the sky, and the human connection in the vast rice fields. I remember the bare feet, stained with mud, yet walking steadily with smiles on their faces. I remember my mother's hands, my father's hands, the hands that gathered the sunlight to nurture their children's lives.

Gathering the sunshine of the harvest season, I gather my childhood, I gather the beautiful days of my life. There, I find dreams of the countryside, a deep love for my homeland, lessons about labor, love, and sharing—lessons that are more profound than any words.

Perhaps each of us has a "harvest season" to cherish and remember. Each harvest season leaves behind not only sacks of rice filling the yards, but also sows seeds of love and gratitude in our hearts. No matter how far life may take us, a sunny afternoon, a breeze carrying the scent of ripe rice, can bring a sense of calm, as if returning to the very place where we were born and raised, the place that taught us our first lessons about labor and humanity.

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