Since the green rice season, I had made an appointment with Mr. May to one day harvest rice in Dang village. Mr. May had been waiting at the wooden gate for a long time. The flock of geese in the garden was no longer as noisy as before. As he guided my bike under the floor, he smiled: “Geese have good memories, they are aggressive when meeting strangers, but after a few times they consider them as family!” That was the flock of geese that had strayed into the yard after the flood last year, and in a few days had pecked out a bag of rice. After asking for a long time but no one came to claim them, Mr. May took pity on them and kept them for himself.

Illustration: QUANG HIEU

I and the villagers followed the winding path leading to the fields, the grass rustling underfoot. The morning dew lingered and curled along the path. Before my eyes was a vast expanse of golden ripe rice. The rice stalks were as tall as a person, slender yet resilient, supporting the rice stalks heavy with golden grains like thousands of drops of honey dripping down, as if to thank the land and the mountains.

This year’s rice harvest was bountiful, the valley was bright and filled with the scent of new rice. In between were the ivory-colored sesame flowers and the cool purple of the morning glory. That beauty made my heart vibrate with clear melodies. At the foot of the hill, the silhouettes of people cutting rice could be seen faintly, the voices and laughter mixed with the wind, spreading across the mountainside, resonating into the music of the harvest season.

Standing on the field, I looked out into the distance - the rolling green hills, further away were the streets, the hustle and bustle of life. The sky was blue, everyone stopped and looked up when a plane passed by until there was only a small dot left. Ba May said softly: "I have never been on a plane before, I wonder what it feels like to fly in the sky?" Having said that, he fondled the rice stalks in his hands. Ba May's seemingly simple words made me feel nostalgic. I remember the first time I met him, the day I went with the commune working group to check the poor households in the village. At that time, it suddenly rained, the cold wind blew through the window. Ba lit the stove, added firewood, then kindly poured a bowl of ginger water. From that day on, I often called him to chat, we became close without realizing it.

At noon, everyone gathered in a small hut in the middle of the field. Sticky rice, salted meat, and wild vegetables were wrapped in green dong leaves, fragrant. Wild tangerines ripened in the bushes, peeled off, their essential oils lingered in the fingers. The elders said that plants and trees also had their own connection, when tangerines ripened, the rice season had come. Mr. Pu said that in a few years, when the tallow and acacia trees on this hill grew tall, people would switch to planting forests and rice fields, creating the biggest hill in Dang village. Those words made me both happy and sad, because each passing season meant a way of life gradually changing.

Late in the afternoon, after a tiring day of work, everyone carried rice downhill to the village. I helped Mrs. May carry her bag and tried to walk behind. In the sound of footsteps, someone's voice joked: "Today, there is a commune cadre carrying the rice with me, so the rice must be heavier!" The simple but heartwarming words made all the hardships disappear.

The afternoon sun sparkled on the stream, the wind blew through the forest, and the insects sang. When we said goodbye, Uncle May said: “You must definitely come back for Tet, and let’s make sticky rice cakes with me!” Then he thrust into my hand a heavy bag of tangerines, ginger, banana flowers… I crossed the pass when the sky was already twinkling with stars. In that shimmering light, my heart also lit up, as if there were thousands of stars lighting up, spreading faith and love on every road ahead.

    Source: https://www.qdnd.vn/van-hoa/van-hoc-nghe-thuat/nuong-doi-mua-goi-1014870