Gathering up the love

There are afternoons that slowly drift by, leaving one feeling unsteady and aimless amidst the rhythmic ticking of an old clock. Will the years just pass by like that? Will the innocent memories we've cherished for so long simply be forgotten? Everyone has memories to cherish, recollections to nurture, dreams to nurture. In my dreamy realm of nostalgia, scents are preserved in a special way, cherished by deep and enduring longing, embraced whenever my heart feels restless and uncertain...

Illustration: LE NGOC DUY

I remember you once asked, "What are you hiding in your eyes? Why do I feel a pang in my heart whenever I look into them?" Perhaps you've caught glimpses of fleeting moments when old scents subtly return to me. Some scents are vividly present, as fresh as if they were touched just yesterday; some scents long lost suddenly return with a pang of emotion; and some scents haunt me with nostalgia, urging me to return and find them again...

The earthy scent of childhood lingers on the winding village road, difficult to name. It seems to be the smell of fresh straw, the smoke from burning rice stalks carried on the breeze from the distant fields. The fragrance of betel nuts and pomelos in sun-drenched gardens... Or perhaps the smell of fresh mud from the river, the pungent smell of buffalo dung... I call it the scent of home, the scent of nostalgia! In the hazy twilight smoke, the scent of home permeates the vast emptiness. As evening falls, the village kitchen hums with the joyful sounds of sour fish soup with starfruit. The scent of a childhood of hardship and poverty nurtured me as I grew up. How could I possibly forget it?

Returning to live with my grandmother in a vast village of white sand, I acquired a new scent. The scent of my grandmother's daily sweat as she toiled on the scorching roads, catching fish and shrimp in time for the morning market to earn money to support her grandchildren. Even her lullabies, sung every night when I missed my mother and sobbed, seemed to possess a special fragrance.

I snuggled into my grandmother's armpit, murmuring dreamily, "Why do I smell like Mom, Grandma?" She comforted me with her loving scent, "Every afternoon I stand at the back gate, gazing towards my mother's hometown, my heart aching with sorrow." On rainy days, I would trail behind my grandmother on the road to the market. The smell of cassava, sweet potatoes, and roasted corn from the poor village market stayed with me long after.

The day I left home for the city, I clung to the scent of my mother, my siblings, and the thatched cottage at the foot of the hill. Lying in my dorm room at Doi Cung, I felt a pang of nostalgia for the salty, pungent smell of her sun-scorched hair, the smell of her old clothes, and the smell of the glowing charcoal stove. My mother seemed to have no time to care for herself, her thin clothes worn and tattered year-round, rushing about from dawn till dusk… yet how much I loved that scent of her hard work in the rain and sun.

Amidst the bustling streets and countless unfamiliar scents, I still fondly remember the gentle fragrance of grapefruit, lemon, and soapberry lingering on my lustrous hair. I still wash my hair with soapberry every day, even though my friends call me a "country girl." For me, that refined, elegant scent will never fade from my memory, and even years later, I still yearn for it.

Hue, a city of love in its season, has the shy fragrance of ylang-ylang blossoms in the street corners. My first love had the scent of longan and mango on the moss-covered, ancient streets where phoenix trees fluttered, and the intoxicating fragrance of lotus blossoms emanating from the Imperial Citadel on a clear, crescent-shaped night... All of it remains, as if it has never drifted away.

The day I carried my children back to the sunny, windy land, I continued to walk through countless scents of love. The years spent in that damp dorm room, where the summer smelled distinctly of sunshine, and the winter brought the pungent musty odor of the old walls. Day after day, after getting dressed and stepping onto the lecture platform, I would return to the small kitchen, and again smell the porridge, the baby formula, the milk, and even the pungent urine that, when they grew up and went far away, I would remember with a pang of longing…

As my children grew up and left home to make a living, leaving their mother alone, I retained another scent, an indistinct, hard-to-name fragrance, yet one that blended together and rose intensely. I call it the scent of waiting. I waited for the sound of a train whistle in the days leading up to Tet; waited for the night bus to return so that the three of us could be together for a final meal of the year. And somewhere, a lingering scent of incense wafted by, drawing everything back to the sacred origins, stirring up memories of our ancestors, and evoking a pang of sorrow for the partings after reunions...

Throughout life's journey, countless memories and affections ebb and flow with the ups and downs and changes of time. As the years pass, sometimes we feel a sense of emptiness, and suddenly we long to rely on our memories to search for and gather up fleeting, fragrant recollections. Often, we feel apprehensive, fearing that one day our hearts will forget those old scents and memories.

Thien Lam

Source: https://baoquangtri.vn/gom-nhat-nhung-yeu-thuong-193950.htm