The Garden of Fond Memories

Hàm Mỹ welcomed me again in mid-September. The mid-season rain in the countryside was a bit heavy and prolonged, but not enough to deter a son far from home from returning to visit his family. For me, I return home three or five times a year, at least for two days, sometimes three or five. Yet each time I return, the feeling of nostalgia in my heart is different, difficult to describe.

Nowadays, when you mention Ham My commune in particular and Ham Thuan Nam district in general, everyone immediately thinks of "dragon fruit and more dragon fruit" of Binh Thuan . But in the past, during the subsidy period, Ham My and Tan Thuan, two communes in the district, had ample land and water to grow rice year-round. Fruit trees flourished. Remembering the time before dragon fruit orchards developed, I think of my parents' thatched-roof, mud-walled house nestled amidst the lush, evergreen fruit trees. My family's garden was quite large, with abundant, overgrown trees and many winding paths. The air in the garden was always fresh and cool; at that time, we could freely breathe in the fresh air, filling our lungs. Perhaps now, after living in the city for a long time, with many busy streets during the day and sparkling lights at night, along with the hustle and bustle of life, I have forgotten many of those memories. But when I returned home, seeing the familiar scenery of my childhood, every detail of the garden where I grew up reappeared, just as it was back then. I stood for a long time in the spot where, upon waking, I would scoop up a ladle of cool water from the earthenware pot to brush my teeth and wash my face. Closing my eyes, I saw myself climbing a coconut tree, grabbing the husks, and crawling straight to the top, using my feet to kick the perfectly ripe coconuts into the pond next to the house. Then I saw myself making a small torch, lighting smoke in a beehive to scatter the bees, and using a wooden knife to scoop all the honeycomb and honey into a plastic basin; a few bees stung my arm out of regret, but I was incredibly exhilarated by the feeling of having brought home a spoils of war. The bunches of bananas, just ripe and full, were broken in half by the wind. I covered them with dry banana leaves, and every day I would take them out to check which ones were ripe and eat them… Then I found myself climbing tall trees, breaking off old, tall bunches for my grandmother, cutting tall, dried banana leaves to store for rice during the days I spent tending the cows in the forest all day. I was startled when my mother called: “What are you doing standing here lost in thought? The incense is burning out, go pour wine and tea for your father, then burn the paper offerings to invite the guests to eat and drink before it gets too late, and we have to prepare to return to the city.”

The trees, like papaya, coconut, banana, betel, and others, surrounding the pond in the garden grew up with me, confiding in me, sharing countless stories and feelings. My childhood was spent in a thatched hut, surrounded by a lush green garden year-round. There were no gas stoves, electric stoves, light bulbs, televisions, or telephones in the house; only wood-burning stoves and oil lamps. Every little corner of the garden, around the yard, and extending to the rice paddies and irrigation ditches, has given me countless memories, simple, dear, and innocent recollections of a time when my homeland was still poor. Twenty years of attachment to the countryside have made me stronger throughout my later life and studies in the city, which is neither peaceful nor easy.

In the early 1990s, the villagers in my hometown brought wooden posts and laid them across the rice paddies and even the gardens. Then, dragon fruit orchards gradually covered the rice fields, breaking the old landscape of lush green fields when the rice was young and golden fields when harvest was about to begin. Sometimes, remembering that brings a pang of pain to my chest. As the years passed, the old order of life changed, and the alluvial plains and empty lands that had been so closely associated with the childhood of children like me, who spent their days going to school and herding cattle, gradually disappeared. The elderly and adults around me passed away one by one according to the laws of life, and all that people could do was feel endless sorrow and nostalgia whenever they thought about them.

During my visits back home to see my grandparents and parents, I often spend a little time exploring familiar places on the land where my ancestors grew up, gazing wistfully at the familiar scenery. At such times, I always want to bring something from here back to the city as a memento. Because I know that soon, when I'm older, even though my heart still cherishes, remembers, and treasures these pure things, it will be difficult for me to see my grandparents, parents, and the familiar sights again when I return home.

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