Illustration: DANG HONG QUAN
Those days in the countryside were truly peaceful. After lunch, Grandma would gently say, "Go outside and play, it's too hot sleeping inside." Without needing a second reminder, we children would grab our thin mats, head to the backyard, find a shady spot, and lie down. Without a word, some would rest their heads on their arms, others on their sides, and some would toss and turn for a while before finally drifting off to sleep.
I remember those midday suns, the silence so profound you could hear the leaves rustling softly against each other. In the distance, birds called to each other; closer, cicadas chirped incessantly, like an unending summer symphony. I lay there, eyes half-closed, feeling the breeze caress my face, carrying the scent of fresh grass and the familiar smells of the countryside.
My grandmother always kept a pitcher of cool water in the corner of the garden. On those afternoons when I woke up with a parched throat, I would leisurely walk over, pour myself a cup, and drink it in one long gulp. The water was just cool enough, but it quenched my thirst terribly. Sometimes, my grandmother would add a few sprigs of fragrant leaves, their gentle aroma spreading throughout my body, leaving me feeling refreshed after drinking it. Such simple things, even after traveling to so many places, I can never recapture that feeling of the past.
I remember once my mother sat beside me, fanning me to sleep, and softly said, "When I was little, I also took afternoon naps in the garden like you kids. I got used to it; the sound of the wind makes me sleepy." Later, when I grew up and tossed and turned in the city for nights, I suddenly remembered those words and realized how peaceful those childhood sleeps were.
As I grew older, summers became shorter, and trips back home became less frequent. My grandmother grew older, my mother became busier, and I was caught up in the other twists and turns of life. There were afternoons when, in the stuffy confines of my room, I suddenly longed for a distant place, a place with wind, the scent of grass, the sound of cicadas, and a peaceful, breezy nap in my hometown.
I tried to recapture it. Once, when I went back to my hometown, the same old road, the same garden, but everything seemed different. The children of yesteryear were scattered, no one was taking afternoon naps in the garden anymore. I lay down, closed my eyes, trying to recapture the old feeling, but sleep wouldn't come. Perhaps it wasn't the scenery that had changed, but I myself who had changed.
But the memories are still there. They don't appear clearly, they just fleetingly pass by like a scent. Sometimes it's a suddenly quiet afternoon, sometimes a breeze blowing through the window, sometimes just a moment of sadness. And then, everything comes back: those afternoons spent lying down, those restless naps, those familiar faces who passed through my life so gently.
Now, whenever I think about my childhood, I no longer try to cling to every detail. I only remember one feeling: the feeling of lying peacefully under a vast sky, without worries or haste, just myself and everything so familiar. A feeling that, perhaps, no matter how far I travel, I will always carry with me. And sometimes, amidst busy days, I tell myself, if possible, to slow down a little.
Perhaps, one afternoon, I will rediscover my younger self, the child who once slept soundly in the summer, in a simple realm of memories.
Source: https://tuoitre.vn/mien-ky-uc-ngay-he-20260524105008511.htm
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