The season of persimmons evokes nostalgia.

(Dong Nai) - In my hometown, each season has its own unique scent. Spring has the pungent smell of straw smoke after the winter harvest, summer is fragrant with the scent of ripe longan, and winter is chilly and has a slightly earthy smell. But perhaps, autumn is the season I remember most because of the scent of persimmon fruit. Every time I return home, passing by the persimmon tree at the village communal house, I look up at its lush green foliage, as if my childhood remains intact in every leaf and every old branch.

The ancient persimmon tree has stood silently at the entrance of my village temple for generations. No one in the village remembers exactly when it was planted, only that since my grandfather was a little boy running around in his short-sleeved shirt and shorts, that persimmon tree has stood there, majestic and solemn.

Around the end of June or beginning of July (lunar calendar), my village enters the persimmon season. The tree's round, canopy covers a corner of the village courtyard. Each round, golden persimmon, like tiny jewels, hides beneath the lush green leaves. The whole village seems to be infused with a sweet fragrance, signaling the gentle arrival of autumn. Every morning, as I walked past that persimmon tree with my mother to the fields, I would check to see if any fruit had fallen. The unique scent of the persimmon, once smelled, is hard to forget.

Persimmons aren't a common fruit during holidays or festivals, nor are they a delicacy that people crave. But for the people in my hometown, persimmons are an irreplaceable part of our memories, a familiar part of our childhood. They evoke the scent of peaceful days, the chirping of birds in the morning, the clacking of my grandmother's wooden clogs as she went to the market early, and the fairy tale my mother used to tell before bedtime: "Persimmon, persimmon, you fell into Grandma's hands, Grandma will smell you but she won't eat you." Perhaps it was because of that story that my friends and I loved persimmons so much when we were little—a fragrant fruit that seemed to encapsulate childhood memories in every sniff and every caress.

On sweltering summer afternoons, we children would gather at the persimmon tree at the edge of the village to play jump rope, stick games, and marbles… The old persimmon tree stood there like a cool, green canopy, embracing our childhood in its shady embrace. Sometimes, when a storm came, its wide-spreading branches would shield the entire village square from the wind. When the storm subsided, the ground was covered with leaves, dry branches were broken and fallen, and unripe and ripe fruits lay scattered everywhere. The women would gather the leaves to dry and use as fuel for the stove, and place the ripe persimmons inside the house to fill the air with their fragrance. Meanwhile, we would be full of green persimmons, chattering and playing catch, having a blast like at a festival.

As a habit, every time the persimmons ripened, my mother would place a small plate on the tea table, as if bringing a corner of autumn into the house. She carefully selected the golden, round persimmons, setting them aside for a few days to let them release their fragrance. The scent of persimmons gently permeated the air, seeping into every corner, even creeping into peaceful afternoon naps. Whenever guests visited, she would pour a cup of hot lotus tea; the aroma of the tea blended with the scent of persimmons, creating a gentle fragrance, like a rustic symphony of the countryside. I still remember my grandmother sitting by the window, holding a small cloth bag with a persimmon inside. Occasionally, she would bring the bag to her nose, inhale softly, and smile—a peaceful smile as if her youth and memories were returning in that sweet, comforting scent of persimmons.

The old persimmon tree, weathered by time, its trunk gnarled and dark, stands silently as a witness to countless seasons. I grew up with each passing season of ripe persimmons. In my childhood, persimmons were my toys, tiny but fragrant gifts. As I grew older, they became the scent of memories, a gentle remnant amidst the hustle and bustle of city life. Every year, when I return to my hometown and pass by the persimmon tree at the village square, my heart sinks. The tree still stands there, its foliage still lush, its fruit still golden as before, only now the cheerful laughter of the children from years past is gone.

In the midst of the bustling city, I occasionally come across small roadside stalls selling ripe persimmons. I often stop to buy a few, not to eat them, but to keep a little something familiar. Even a faint scent is enough to transport me back to a corner of the village, where there's an old persimmon tree, a moss-covered village courtyard, and carefree, clear days.

It's often said that some scents stay with us for a lifetime. For me, it's the scent of ripe persimmons, a familiar fragrance that stirs my heart every autumn. Persimmon season, a season of simple yet profound things. And for me, nothing is more rustic yet poignant than the golden, ripe persimmon, silently releasing its fragrance, reminding me of peaceful days gone by that will never fade.

Ha Linh

Source: https://baodongnai.com.vn/van-hoa/202508/mua-thi-ve-trong-noi-nho-ea21ed3/