The season returns, remembering the yellow straw

In the poor countryside, golden straw was the soul of life, beginning as a warm, flickering fire that chased away the cold night. Sitting by the fire, with a pot of boiled sweet potatoes or peanuts, we would hear fairy tales told by our grandmothers or mothers in their gentle, warm voices. We would vie for space on our grandmothers' or mothers' laps, vying for the hot, fragrant sweet potatoes. The gentle scent of golden straw was what made up the Vietnamese countryside, a scent that neither you nor I will ever forget. Then there were the soft layers of straw that formed a mattress under the woven mats of Thai Binh , topped with a woolen blanket from Nam Dinh. Five or six of us would study together, and after studying, we would roll around and fight over who would sleep. Even now, after so many years, I still haven't forgotten the feeling of rolling on that straw bed, a feeling of ultimate bliss, thanks to the comfort of that straw mattress.

In season, the golden straw is also dried and stored for the buffaloes and cows when winter comes. The piles of straw are tall and large; we often play mock battles around them, or spread them out, lie down, read books, or hum songs, forgetting the beginning and the end. The chickens also come out of their coop every day to peck at the grains of rice still clinging to the straw, and the brown sparrows, in pairs, chirp together, carrying golden straws and soaring up into the lush green trees near the house to build their nests. On sunny days, we often hang hammocks beside the straw piles, enjoying the scent of the golden straw. In good harvest seasons, the straw piles are tall and large, symbolizing the prosperity of the village, the laughter of children echoing far and wide, and the faces of the farmers beaming with happiness. The golden straw of my homeland when the harvest season arrives. Far from home, every time the season comes around, memories of golden straw resurface in my mind. You and I, children of the hardworking Vietnamese countryside, with our humble thatched roofs, village roads, ancient communal houses, wells, ponds, banyan trees, kapok trees, bamboo groves, ferry landings, golden rice fields heavy with harvests... and so many loved ones, barefoot and wearing brown clothes from days gone by... Perhaps we will never forget the golden straw and its fragrant scent, will we? Every time the harvest season comes, my heart is filled with longing for my beloved village with its fields of ripening rice and golden straw, no matter how far away you or I may be, in some corner of the world.

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