Remember the smell of wet firewood

Illustration (AI)

The rainy season had arrived. The first rains of the season did not pour heavily but drizzled all day and night, and in no time the dirt yard behind the house was soaked. The rain soaked into the pile of dry firewood that my mother had stored next to the jackfruit tree, which was almost half rotten and slowly dying.

The sky turned gray, the smell of damp earth mixed with the smell of rotten wood diluted in the air, lingering under the eaves, then seeping into the kitchen. The burning of wet wood created a smell that was hard to describe but had been deeply ingrained in my subconscious since long ago. The smell of wet wood in my memory was similar to the smell of the time when I was still living under the protection of my parents, similar to the smell of the poor countryside during the years living far away from home.

In the kitchen, there was always a corner where my mother stacked dry firewood in case the straw did not dry enough to start a fire. In the dry season, my mother chopped branches from the garden, stacked them into bundles, and stored them carefully for use in case of unexpected storms. But sometimes a sudden rain still managed to come and wet the bundles of firewood that were not covered properly. The kitchen was difficult to light on rainy days, plus the suffocating smoke could not escape, clinging to everything, including the food in the tiny kitchen. The smell of smoke from the wet firewood spread throughout the space, permeating everywhere, leaving behind an unpleasant smoky smell.

I used to hate that smell. I used to sulk when I had to sit and fan the stove with my mother in the smoky space from the wet wood smoke. But now, in the middle of the smoky city, my heart aches for the smell of wet wood smoke from those years. Perhaps it is not just an ordinary scent but hidden inside is the smell of hardship, of hard work, of a childhood that, although not perfect, was full of love.

Every time it rains, I hear the dry memories in my heart that have been there for so long suddenly become soft and wet, like the moss on the brick wall that has drunk its fill of water. I remember the times when my mother rolled up her sleeves, diligently split each piece of wood that had tasted the rain, and patiently lit the fire. Every time the wood burned a small spot, my mother's eyes lit up, her hands cupped together to shield herself from the wind.

Perhaps at that time, I did not fully understand the hardships my mother endured in each movement, did not feel the hardships wrapped up in the low sitting posture amidst the nostalgic smoke. It was not until I grew up far from home, among hundreds of familiar and strange scents in the rhythm of urban life, that I realized that the smell of wet firewood was the scent of memories, of a past that had somewhat faded with time.

The kitchen in the countryside during the rainy season is damp everywhere, the lime walls are wet, and the roof tiles are leaking. But it is also in that space that my mother cooked every meal for the whole family, drying the gloomy afternoons with the sound of falling rain.

The smell of wet firewood is inherently hard to love, hard to like, if not to say it is a challenge in the kitchen on days of endless rain. But somehow, that scent makes people humble and miss. Like the nostalgia for loved ones not only lingers in beautiful things but also in things that are healed and connected by tolerance and great forgiveness. I remember the ash-stained hands, the scarf wrapped around half of my head to keep the smoke from getting into my eyes. I also remember the small figure of my mother, working hard in the kitchen filled with the smell of fire and rain. But her eyes and smile are always full of love, ready to warm up the months when I shivered in the pouring rain.

Another rainy season has come to the city, I still keep the habit of opening the window a little, letting the wind carry many scents that need to be dried, seeping into the room to find shelter. My job is to sit quietly, half-close my eyes, letting my memories find their way back in the afternoon rain to the old countryside. Where my mother sits diligently gathering firewood. Her hands fanning each beat silently to the dancing firelight under the hazy smoke. And in the very hazy wet smoke of firewood, I found myself wandering among the peaceful, intact skies of my childhood./.

Nhat Pham

Source: https://baolongan.vn/nho-mui-cui-uot-a200696.html