Summer Memories

Throughout the year, preoccupied with the hustle and bustle of city life, I still cherish a burning memory of summers in my old hometown. Those days when the golden sun shone brightly on the ripening rice fields, illuminating the heavy loads of rice carried on my mother's thin shoulders under the scorching May sun, and my father diligently tilling the soil with his hoe in the recently harvested fields, preparing for the next planting season.

Summer in my hometown begins with the buzzing of cicadas. The scorching summer sun beats down on the bare stubble of recently harvested rice, bringing up the pungent, salty smell of mud mixed with the lingering scent of freshly harvested rice in the fields. That's also when my father would diligently carry his plow to the fields, busily preparing the land for the next planting season.

(AI)

My father's shadow stretched long across the waterlogged rice paddies, his thin, calloused hands, weathered by sun and wind, rhythmically plowing and turning over each clod of brown earth. I remember my mother's frail figure under the scorching sun, carrying baskets of golden rice from the drying yard to the storeroom, her clothes soaked with sweat. Watching her toss and turn in the sweltering heat, I felt a pang of sympathy for the hard work and frugality of this poor country woman, who spent her whole life sacrificing for her husband and children through the burning seasons.

On sweltering summer afternoons, my brother and I would sneak away from our parents to catch cicadas, steal a few green guavas from the fence, or freely swim in the cool, swirling river behind our house. My summer memories also include late afternoons, when the sunlight had faded from the bamboo groves, and the whole family would gather around a simple meal on the breezy porch. A bowl of crab soup with fresh green jute leaves, a crunchy pickled eggplant, or a plate of fragrant braised goby fish with pepper, all seemed to dispel the fatigue and stifling heat of a long, scorching day.

Amidst the refreshing southwesterly breeze, my father would often recount ancient tales, the traditions of our homeland, and the silent hopes he instilled in the pages of our schoolbooks. These simple, sweet words, like cool water, nurtured my soul, helping me understand the value of hard work and the sacred love for my roots.

Summer in my hometown now exists only in the depths of my memory. My parents have passed away, and the old house is now a repository of memories tinged with the colors of time. Whenever I hear the buzzing of cicadas or catch a glimpse of the vibrant red of the flamboyant trees on the street corner, my heart overflows with boundless longing. And my path home each summer today is through these sweet memories, the image of my parents still diligently working in the fields, and the immeasurable love that nurtured me as I grew up in this vast world…/.

Mai Thi Truc

Source: https://baotayninh.vn/mien-nho-mua-he-147935.html