I remember the smell of straw.

I was born in the countryside, so my childhood was immersed in the earthy smell of the fields and the pungent scent of straw from my hometown. My friends are now scattered everywhere. Some have moved abroad to build their careers, some married into families in the North and then hurried south with their husbands... while I live and work in the city. Every time I smell the aroma of freshly cooked rice in the evening breeze, a pang of nostalgia for my homeland fills me.

Illustration: LNDUY

Oh, how I miss the familiar scent of straw mingled with the hazy smoke of the evening, from those distant, heart-wrenching years. In my memory, the countryside was like a painting of countless colors. There were clumps of wildflowers growing abundantly along the embankments, swaying in anticipation of the morning sun. There were the delicate wildflowers clinging to passersby, like a promise of return. During harvest season, the fields bustled with laughter and chatter from very early in the morning.

Back then, before agriculture was modernized as it is today, mothers and sisters would quickly harvest the rice, their backs drenched in sweat, their white hats bobbing in the fields like cranes heron heralding the arrival of the season. Along the country roads, carts loaded with rice hurried back home to be dried in the sun.

From the very beginning of the village, every house had a drying yard covered with golden rice, and we children would often walk back and forth on the yard, calling it "plowing the rice," to help it dry faster. Sometimes, when the sun was blazing hot, a strong wind would blow, dark clouds would gather, and the whole family, gathered around the dinner table, would quickly get up and race against the capricious afternoon rain to "save the rice."

Farming tasks follow one another in a continuous cycle. Only when the rice has been dried can they relax and enjoy a pot of freshly cooked rice.

In a flash, the harvest was complete. Everywhere you looked, there were endless piles of straw, even covering the pathways. After the harvest, in my hometown, every house has a haystack in the corner of the garden. I miss the smell of straw from my homeland.

It had a pungent, lingering scent that clung to the nose, spicy and warm. The smell of straw mixed with the sweat of farmers carrying hoes to the fields, their backs bent from the scorching sun; the smell of the hard work and toil of mothers; the smell of the joy of bountiful harvests and the smell of the deep sadness etched in the eyes of farmers after each failed harvest.

The smell of straw is the scent of the fields that a person from the countryside can never forget. Remembering the old days, the fragrant smell of straw from the past, for me, "just arriving at the village/the smell of straw/is already intoxicating/my heart" (Bằng Hữu). Often, in the noisy city, amidst the hardships of making a living, I just want to take a deep breath to reconnect with those memories.

I remember the days when I was a barefoot, bareheaded child, curled up in a golden straw bed playing hide-and-seek with my friends. Memories of my homeland are always deeply embedded in the scent of the fields and the breezes of the meadows. There, the pungent smell of straw lingers, gradually spreading through my memories. That scent of straw, seemingly forgotten somewhere, is suddenly awakened in a stirring of emotion.

As the years passed, and I suddenly realized I was no longer young, the countryside had become an unforgettable part of my memories. It was the innocent, pure childhood of a lifetime. Remembering the smell of straw, I carry with me the desires and dreams to gather love for myself. Suddenly, a golden straw is scattered in the afternoon sun and wind...

An Khanh

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