"Grandma, what are fairy tales?" "Fairy tales are beautiful stories passed down from generation to generation, my dear!" "What is summer, Grandma? Why do cicadas sing in the summer?" "Oh, you silly girl, how am I supposed to answer so many questions?"
Illustration photo: Internet.
She stroked my head and smiled. Her smile brightened her dim eyes with joy, and the wrinkles on her face seemed to deepen. Her mouth smacked as she chewed betel nut, revealing a few dark, gleaming teeth. Every time I saw her smile, a feeling of peace washed over me, as if that summer had never been so harsh.
On a scorching summer day, the sun blazes down relentlessly. The sky is a vast, mysterious blue. Thousands of cicadas chirp in a symphony of incessant sounds. A hot, noisy, majestic summer. A summer filled with longing…
"Ah ah ah ơi, ah ah ah ơi"
Sleep, you sleep for a long time.
Your mother went to plant rice in the deep fields and hasn't come back yet.
We caught a carp and a catfish.
Grab him by the neck and drag him back to sleep and eat.
"Ah ah ah oh…".
Amidst the vast expanse, a lullaby echoes in the mind, soothing the subconscious of the grown-up child. A summer day long, long ago. Back then, smartphones didn't exist in the dictionary. Appliances like refrigerators, electric fans, televisions, and cassette players were rare and luxurious. In the cradle, the child slept soundly, the summer gentle on its face. The harsh summer sun and the daily struggles seemed absent. Summer was peaceful. That peace was contained within the simple thatched house nestled under the shade of trees. Summer was bustling with the songs of birds and the chirping of cicadas. But everything seemed to stop when the grandmother's lullaby began. Beside the small cradle, the rocking motion of the rocking cradle, the grandmother's arm fanning with a leaf fan. The baby sank into a peaceful sleep. Perhaps, for the child, summer was simply the beads of sweat on its face.
The baby grew up to the rhythmic rocking of the cradle. She grew up through golden, sun-drenched summers. Her summers were filled with the buzzing of cicadas, the gentle lullabies of white egrets flying gracefully, and the mournful calls of cuckoos searching for mates… The baby grew up in lullabies, songs, warmth, and the love of her grandmother.
Illustration photo: Internet.
During the hot summer months, my grandmother often cooked simple dishes. Just a handful of jute leaves picked from her garden, cooked with a few freshwater crabs she caught. Or she'd go to the garden to pick a few sour starfruit or mangoes to cook with water spinach, and that would make a delicious soup that was both sweet and refreshing. Her garden was full of greenery and the fragrant scent of plants and leaves. The scent of chestnut blossoms lingered, and the aroma of ripe jackfruit filled the air. Some days, I would trail behind her as she picked jackfruit.
"Grandma! How long does it take for a jackfruit tree to bear such sweet and fragrant fruit?" "At least 10 years, my dear. The sapling is planted in the ground, cared for, and then it takes a long time to grow, and only then can it bear flowers and fruit. The young fruit also needs time to grow before it ripens and becomes fragrant like this!"
"This land was once barren and rocky. It took countless shovel strokes, countless drops of sweat to revive it, bringing forth lush greenery, flowers, and fruit. That's why they say, with human effort, even rocks can become food. Time passes, people go to distant places, but the fruits of labor remain here." At times like these, I understand that she is thinking of him again.
The summer sun bathed the rice fields in golden hues. I followed the edge of the fields, harvesting rice for my grandmother. The golden, fragrant, plump grains had an indescribable aroma. Only much later did I learn that it was the scent of the earth, the sky, the water, and the sweat of human hands. During harvest season, the sound of the threshing machine drowned out the chirping of cicadas. Golden rice filled the yard, golden straw lined the road. The flamboyant trees blazed red across the sky. The clear blue sky was dotted with drifting clouds. The silhouettes of kites, full of wind, soared high into the air. These kites were made by secretly tearing paper from school notebooks, or, if they were luckier, by borrowing a few sheets of newspaper and smearing it with tapioca starch. Watching the kites fly high in the blue sky, the children cheered with delight. They only went home when the sun began to set behind the mountains, casting a red glow of twilight.
My fairy tale is my grandmother. (Illustrative image: Internet)
Night. The darkness accentuated the brilliant Milky Way. The moon melted into space. Fireflies fluttered in swarms like falling stars. The heat of the day rose stiflingly. The small hand fan was no match for the heat. I went out onto the veranda, sprawled on the bamboo bed, inhaling the fragrant scent of lotus carried by the breeze, listening to the distant call of the cuckoo. My grandmother sat beside me, her hair a silvery white, fanning herself with a leaf fan. Chewing betel nut, she began to tell stories of days gone by. I drifted off to sleep, lost in a world of fairy tales.
In my restless sleep, I faintly smelled my grandmother's scent, like the fragrance of plants, flowers, and fruits in the garden. It seemed to be the scent of time itself, of hardships under the sun and rain, of the desolate beauty of fairy tales. The sky had gained another star, and my grandmother was no longer here. She said that when a person dies, their soul is liberated and becomes a bright star, watching over the living every night.
In modern summer, the sun still shines golden on the streets. The flamboyant trees still blaze red across the sky. Thousands of cicadas still sing their love song of nature. But people confine themselves to their rooms, surrounded by conveniences. In modern life, people are reluctant to go outside in the summer. They distance themselves from nature, finding satisfaction in the cool air of air conditioning. Children rarely fly kites; they stay indoors, their world confined to their smartphones. And so, summer becomes even harsher.
I suddenly remembered summers long gone, days of yore. Summer days with an old woman chewing betel nut, her hair white, her eyes sparkling after her hearty laughter. The cicadas chirped, their sounds lingering for a thousand years. The lullaby was like mist in the twilight. "Sleep well, lullaby..." Look, who is that with the white hair and bright eyes, smiling at me? Is it the fairy I often saw in the fairy tales my grandmother told me? How much she resembles my grandmother!
Gazing up at the brightest star in the sky, I thought I saw her smiling. In the depths of my nostalgic longing, my summer appeared with all its grandeur and mystery. It sowed in my heart a resounding love song. The chirping of insects from ages past. The lullabies, the fairy tales she told, the food she cooked—these are now just old memories forever etched in my mind.
One sweltering summer day, I wandered back to my grandmother's garden. Time had covered the landscape in a mossy hue. I found the answer to the question I used to ask her. Grandma, you are my fairy tale. And summer is the season of fairy tales.
Tran Tu
Source
Comment (0)