Windy day and kites

This afternoon, I suddenly longed to return to the porch with its bougainvillea vines. The porch, heavy with sunlight, peeked through the square tiles stained an earthy orange from my childhood. On the courtyard beneath the porch, every afternoon as the straw began to fall, I remember my grandmother sitting in her dark green plastic chair, chewing on the betel leaves she had just prepared. She would gaze into the distance, watching me leave school after the three school bells rang. I would leisurely walk home, clinging to my friends' shoulders on the muddy road after the first summer rain. The quiet alley would gradually fill with a few whispered calls. The late afternoon sun dappled the cheeks of the bareheaded children. We exchanged cheerful greetings, then settled down at my grandmother's feet, waiting to hear her stories from the porch. Stories that often began with the words "back then."

This afternoon, I suddenly longed to return to the porch with its bougainvillea vines. The porch, heavy with sunlight, peeked through the square tiles stained an earthy orange from my childhood. On the courtyard beneath the porch, every afternoon as the straw faded, I remember Grandma sitting in her dark green plastic chair, chewing on the betel leaves she had just prepared. She would gaze into the distance, watching me leave school after the three school bells rang. I would leisurely walk home, clinging to my friends' shoulders on the muddy road after the first summer rain. The quiet alley would gradually fill with a few whispered calls. The late afternoon sun dappled the cheeks of the bareheaded children. We exchanged cheerful greetings, then settled down at Grandma's feet, waiting to hear her stories from the porch. Stories that often began with the words "back then."

Remembering the kites of my childhood. (Illustrative image by AI)

Back then, the porch was often the place to shape dreams and send them into the wind. At the beginning of summer, each of us would get a small paper kite made by Grandma. The kids were as excited as if they'd just gone camping, huddling around her to mix the glue and stick the bamboo together. Grandma would whittle the bamboo for the kite with a sickle-like sharp blade. Curious, we'd peek around, then secretly run home to take our mothers' straw hats to replace the bamboo sticks. The kite frame would wobble, depending on each child's skill, yet it would still take shape. When Mom came home from working in the fields, she'd searched for the hat she'd left on the porch but couldn't find it. When she saw the kite still attached to the frame by a few strands of the hat, she'd drag us back and spank us to stop our mischief.

The paper for the kites was torn from old notebooks. We competed to choose the prettiest blank pages to use as the underside of the kites. Some of us took out pens and wrote down a few wishes on the paper. We asked for a summer vacation that lasted until the end of the year. We asked for perfect scores on all our exams in the new semester. Or we asked to grow up quickly so our parents wouldn't call us children anymore. All sorts of requests were written in letters to the heavens, without any thank-you gifts. Then, everyone craned their necks to look at their kites, waiting for a reply. Many of us mumbled anxiously, wondering if the kites had flown high enough to deliver the letters. Now that we're older, we realize the heavens did read those letters. However, suddenly, among those requests I want to retract, I wish I could go back to the time when my parents called me a child.

I remember flying kites in the freshly harvested fields, still smelling faintly of straw. Each of us would find an empty tin can, wrapping long lengths of fishing line or thread around it and tying it tightly to the kite. Some white fishing line was borrowed from Dad's fishing gear. Some was sewing thread from Mom's sewing supplies. There was even cement bag string from the houses under construction in the neighborhood. Each of us did it differently, as long as we could find a string to fly our kite. The girls ran slower, remembering their mothers' instructions to wear sandals. The boys, however, were like runaway horses, galloping barefoot to avoid getting tangled. The boys' elbows were pulled high by the plastic sandals, like the armrests of cyclists. They still remembered the beating they received for having their hats torn off, so they would run without their sandals but still keep them clutched in their hands to protect them.

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Several kites, both oval and triangular, floated in the air, their long tails adorned with numerous chains. The early summer breeze lifted them high. When the kite strings were taut, we would often find an old mango tree, lie down, and leisurely gaze at the sky. The kites swayed among the fluffy clouds, like birds yearning for freedom, held captive by a string wrapped around a milk can. We both longed for the kites to be free and feared the strings breaking and the kites flying away. This contradiction was just like our prayers to the heavens the day before: half wanting to grow up quickly, half fearing being forced into adulthood.

It seems that in life, there are always memories recounted in the words "back then." These interwoven memories cling to the porch where Grandma used to whittle frames for kites. That porch where, simply by growing up together, one can easily recognize another amidst the hustle and bustle of society. To happen to glance across and see a kite in a distant sky, it's as if one has returned home to the "children" who grew up under that same old porch.

ORIGINAL

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Source: https://baovinhlong.com.vn/van-hoa-giai-tri/202606/tan-van-ngay-gio-va-canh-dieu-7355341/