My maternal grandparents' village is so beautiful this season. The scent of spring begins to permeate the young shoots. It's been a long time since I last relaxed in the fields of my grandparents' village, watching the egrets soaring and gliding in the late afternoon. The taste of home permeates my very being. I linger beside the clumps of pink lotus flowers, captivated by the scent of the sky and the earth. The wind from my memories blows back, carrying traces of my grandparents' village, stirring up nostalgic feelings...
Illustration: NGOC DUY
My maternal grandparents' village is filled with the gentle sound of kites whistling through the lush green bamboo groves, heralding the arrival of the season. I remember those scorching summer days when I would wander around with my friends in my grandparents' village. Sometimes we'd follow the buffaloes, sometimes we'd roast sweet potatoes, and sometimes we'd lie stretched out on the grass gazing at the blue sky...
What we loved most was flying kites, kites we made ourselves by whittling bamboo, bending it, and gluing together newspaper clippings, sometimes even cardboard. Whenever the wind picked up, the kites would soar into the air. At that time, we didn't understand that kite flying was a long-standing cultural tradition of the Vietnamese people, a symbol of freedom. We just held tightly to the kite string, without a care in the world, laughing and playing joyfully, filling the sky with our cheerful chatter.
My maternal grandparents' home is a lush garden with pumpkins and gourds growing day by day, bright red chili peppers, vibrant green spinach, budding eggplants, and rows of bright yellow flowering mustard greens. Especially noteworthy is the abundance of fruit trees such as guava, lemon, orange, and pomelo...
Every morning, village girls walk through gardens still damp with dew, picking fragrant pomelo blossoms, hastily wrapping them in handkerchiefs as if afraid anyone will see them, to send as gifts to their loved ones. Having been away from their maternal hometown for many years, the gardens still linger like wisps of evening smoke, gently clinging to their hearts amidst the endless flow of time.
I remember the gentle river in my maternal grandparents' village, its fertile silt enriching the riverbanks. As evening fell, the fishing nets were pulled up, the rhythmic tapping of the fishing boats urging the mothers and sisters to return home in time for dinner. At this time, a vast wind swept across the newly harvested fields, leaving only stubble. The village bamboo groves began to darken. The sky turned to rain, watering the countryside. Occasionally, thunder rumbled in the flashes of lightning in the east. When the rain subsided, the country music began to play, mingling with the earthy scent of the countryside, seeping into every page of my childhood memories like the taste of a fairy tale not so long ago.
Whenever I return to my maternal grandparents' village, emotions always hold me back. Kites and the river of those days linger in my memories. I take a deep breath; the scent of home is profound. The evening smoke drifts in the wind, carrying the aroma of rice, but my eyes sting because my grandmother has passed away. A void remains. Looking wistfully at the gardens where the white blossoms of the betel nut trees have fallen, I find peace amidst the hustle and bustle of life.
Far from my maternal grandparents' home, amidst the bustling city streets, each time I hear the simple, rustic sounds of my hometown, I feel a longing as if I'm very close. Hesitantly, I return, the sun still shining golden by the river like a lingering thread of heavenly silk.
An Khanh
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