June, going home…

I was able to return to my familiar three-room tiled house. The house had a large brick courtyard, where every morning my grandmother would sweep up the fallen leaves from the custard apple tree. The alley was also very long, lined on both sides with vibrant red hibiscus flowers; my childhood memories often revolved around it with my village friends. The house held beautiful memories, built by my parents in their youth. From the time when the house had a thatched roof and walls made of a mixture of mud and straw, to when it was replaced by a small, cozy three-room tiled house.

The house was simple, but always filled with laughter. I still remember those scorching June afternoons, when the whole family would wait for the sun to set before going out into the garden, sitting together on the small bed, watching the sunlight glint through the window bars and chatting animatedly. Sometimes, when the power went out, my mother would use a hand fan to cool us children when the wind died down. Other times, she would cook a huge pot of black bean sweet soup. Her original recipe, just black beans with a little sugar and a few ice cubes, was an unforgettable treat. Back then, I thought that because of scarcity, everything tasted delicious, but as I grew older and matured, I realized that the real deliciousness comes from being together with loved ones.

Illustration: Tra My

Coming home in June, although the weather was hot, everything was peaceful and gentle, as if my soul had been cleansed of all worries and anxieties. In the mornings, I didn't have to rush to prepare everything to go out and earn money; instead, I leisurely lay in bed listening to the birds chirping. I propped my feet up on the window sill, watching time pass slowly. I listened to all the sounds from the garden outside. Some sounds, which I thought had become monotonous over the years, now sounded so melodious and beautiful. The sparrows chirped softly to each other, probably wanting to stroll among the starfruit branches. The thrush's song was surprisingly clear and pure. The rustling of leaves and the incessant chirping of cicadas filled the air.

Returning home in June gave me the chance to reconnect with my simple, rural farming roots. As a child, I often followed my parents to plow, plant, harvest, and gather crops. I thought I would forget those tasks after my time in the city, but I haven't; I still do them skillfully, as if farming is deeply ingrained in my blood and will never fade. I wield the sickle, cutting the rustling bundles of rice stalks, and I can even guess the different rice varieties by the shape of their grains – round or long. People look at me and laugh, joking that I'm "a city dweller" but so incredibly skilled. I follow my parents to the fields to harvest cassava, and run down to the riverbank to fetch buckets of water to irrigate the vegetable plots. Being a farmer made me understand the hardships my parents endured; producing fragrant, sticky rice and fresh, clean vegetables requires so much sweat and effort.

Coming home in June is like reliving my childhood, even though so many years have passed, even though the paper kites no longer soar in the windy sky. But the dike is still there, the footprints of me and my friends are still there. I sit on the dike, listening to the June breeze, hearing the laughter of myself and my friends from the past lingering around me. The canal that brought the water is a vibrant green, and the swimming skills we used to show off reminded me of my "glorious" past. I used to be a swimming superstar at the village level. That title filled me with joy throughout that memorable summer of my childhood.

Coming home in June, it's impossible to recount all the love and old memories. I feel like a happy little bird returning to a home full of love and protection. There, I can truly be myself, comfortably returning to my inner self and my roots.

Source: https://baodaklak.vn/van-hoa-du-lich-van-hoc-nghe-thuat/van-hoc-nghe-thuat/202506/thang-sau-ve-nha-39a03f4/