A young person sent me a short message: "I really miss the smell of home here, teacher!"
Yes. We all have a homeland to cherish and remember. Family, relatives, friends, love... all originate from our hometowns and spread in all directions. And in the memories of those who have left their homeland, it is also a place with unique, familiar, and precious scents in their hearts.
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It's the fragrant scent of laurel blossoms filling the corner of the yard. It's the fallen betel nut husk revealing a cluster of delicate, fragrant yellow flowers. It's those summer afternoons, the village road sloping with clusters of jasmine flowers, their sweet fragrance making one's steps more wistful.
It's the smell of cows waddling along the country roads, their tails dangling, climbing the slopes of the mountainous district... A thin, small mother follows behind with a whip to keep them in a line. It's the smell of old corrugated iron roofs nestled behind trees and narrow paths, where a gust of wind whips up clouds of red dust. The dust of this land clings tightly to the leaves and grass...
The path, which a few months ago was a eucalyptus forest, is now covered in purplish-green sweet potatoes. The rainy season hasn't arrived yet, so the green is lush and vibrant. We circle around and around. The path stretches out in a simple, tranquil green. A faint scent of sweet potato leaves, picked up by passing cows, wafts through the air. The aroma evokes memories of days spent tending buffaloes. The sweet potato fields have been harvested, with only a few clumps of plump, reddish-pink sprouts occasionally emerging from the ground. These are the leftover pieces of sweet potato tubers. Using a stick, we dig them up, wash them clean, dig a small hole at the foot of the hillside, dry them with a brown shirt, and chew them raw. The starch has turned into sugar, making them sweet and refreshing. And yet, none of us got stomach aches. The slightly pungent smell of sweet potato leaves mingled with the scent of grass and plants filling the air; I suddenly thought of it as a scent of simplicity. Like the unadorned, unadorned fragrance of a lover from this land. Her gaze was fixed on the distant horizon, on the deep purple hues of the lake; on the lush canopy of ancient trees, so thick that even the hottest summer sun couldn't penetrate it. A faint scent of damp, decaying leaves and some kind of fragrant flower wafted through the air. There was also the smell of trampled reeds from passing cattle, the aroma of ripe jackfruit, and the rustling of golden rice paddies by the stream.
Those scents of plants, flowers, and fruits surround us, from the garden to the street, accompanying children on their way to school, adults to the fields, or to offices and workplaces. Even the gates of those offices still carry the sweet fragrance of honeysuckle or old-fashioned roses growing in the corner of the yard. And then there's the aroma of filter-brewed coffee. In the shimmering golden sunlight, we take a deep breath of the fragrant scent of our homeland, feeling more alert and ready to start the workday with enthusiasm and energy. In the corner of the neighbor's garden, there's a peach tree – planted after Tet that year. I'm not entirely sure, knowing that this region has more sunshine, while peach blossoms are said to become even more vibrant in cold weather. It originated from a peach tree in a corner of a garden in the Northeast, a region with harsh winters. One day, a geological engineer was transferred to another area, just as it bloomed. The flower, from a tree with a less robust trunk, only half-opened its delicate, pale pink petals. Amidst a garden of proud, crimson roses and fragrant purple orchids, its delicate pink blossoms, swaying in the breeze, resembled a charming, bewildered expression. Time flew by. This northern peach tree had grown accustomed to the four-month-long dry seasons as well as the relentless rains of the mountainous region. It bloomed serenely among the dazzling, proud yellow plum blossoms. It continued to calmly endure the seasons and weather patterns of this new land, patiently gathering the little resources from the soil to survive in the garden.
Yet this morning, as the sunlight gently swept across the spacious courtyard and touched the garden where it stood, the wind seemed to hesitate for a moment before becoming much lighter. Was it perhaps because the pink of the petals had faded and the leaves, once so vibrant, were now a deeper green? And each time the breeze blew, its delicate petals trembled slightly. A very faint fragrance wafted through the air as the honeybees busily sipped nectar from the blossoms. Looking at this scene, I was reminded of the vibrant peach blossoms of my mother's homeland, the peach blossoms of Lang Son , and the peach blossoms of Nhat Tan, as rosy as a young girl's cheeks when faced with the loving gaze of her beloved.
No matter how far I go, my heart will always cherish the image of my homeland with its unforgettable scents...
BICH THIEM
Source: https://baokhanhhoa.vn/van-hoa/sang-tac/202409/huong-xu-so-50f3046/
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