I love the loofah vines in my hometown so much.

That morning, the loofah vines were in full bloom. The bright yellow flowers shone like sunlight, and bees and butterflies fluttered about, as light as the blinks of an eye. The vines hung down, swaying in the breeze, some bearing long, some short, some still tender and fresh, others beginning to mature and darken. This tiny corner in the middle of the city suddenly became gentle and peaceful, like a forgotten piece of countryside that had sprung up on its own.

The lush green gourd vines evoke a peaceful countryside scene.

On weekends, little Nhien busied herself tending to the gourd vines with her grandfather, her tiny hands caressing the freshly picked young gourds, her eyes wide as if she had just discovered something extraordinary. She asked all sorts of questions in her innocent voice: "Why do gourds have hairs, Grandpa?", "Why are the flowers so yellow?", "Are they sweet?". Her grandfather smiled gently, answering slowly, as if recounting a lifetime of memories from his old hometown in each word.

Suddenly I remembered the loofah trellis in my grandparents' yard, behind my mother's house. Back then, they built a huge trellis, covering a whole corner of the yard. On sunny afternoons, we would hang our hammocks under it, the breeze rustling through the loofah leaves, feeling so cool. The sunlight dappled through the leaves, swaying on our faces, hands, and our restless children's sleep.

My grandmother's house had so much loofah that we couldn't eat it all. Every meal included loofah. What I remember most is loofah cooked with dried shrimp. My grandmother caught the shrimp in the fields, sun-dried them until crispy, and saved them to eat during the season when fish and other seafood were scarce. A bowl of loofah soup with dried shrimp, with a little pepper, and a single spoonful felt like the whole countryside was contained within it.

Gourd soup with shrimp.

Grandma also made grilled zucchini marinated in fish sauce and chili, and stir-fried zucchini with chicken and duck offal. One day, Grandpa went to the fields and caught a quail, which Grandma stir-fried with the zucchini. The dish was simple but so delicious that even after we finished eating, we still sat there admiring it and feeling regretful.

But loofah gourds aren't just for eating. My grandmother would leave the mature gourds on the vine to dry, saving them as seeds for the next season. Sometimes, she would boil the mature gourds to make a drink, saying it would "replenish milk" for new mothers. I remember that year, my aunt Năm gave birth to Thành, and she was weak and lost her milk, causing the whole family to worry. My grandmother quietly picked some mature gourds, washed them, and boiled them for my aunt to drink. A few days later, my aunt felt much better, and Thành stopped crying from hunger. It was such a small story, but it made me believe even more in how people in my hometown rely on plants and fruits to live and heal each other.

Loofah flowers are yellow and have a mild fragrance.

In the afternoons, my grandmother would often ask me to sit beside her and pluck out her gray hairs. I would sit there, my fingers tracing each silver strand, while my ears listened to her stories. Stories of the old days, when my grandparents were poor, and when war raged. The stories mingled with the sound of the wind and the rustling of the gourd leaves, sounding both distant and familiar. Sometimes I didn't understand everything, but my heart still felt warm.

Then I grew up and went to school far from home. Every time I came back, my grandmother would pick a bag of gourds for me. Nearly a dozen, sometimes more. She would say, "Take them back to eat so you don't miss home so much. And share them with your friends, as a token of friendship." I smiled, but my heart ached. Those lush green gourds followed me through my time away from home, as if carrying the scent of the earth, the sun, and my grandmother.

Then life swept us along. We grew up, got married, and settled in the city. The stories we shared under the loofah vines faded into the distance. Sometimes, I suddenly realize I've forgotten the sweet taste of the loofah from my hometown, and even the feeling of lying in a hammock under the lush green vines.

Sweet loofah is a wholesome fruit, serving both as food and medicine.

Then, Nhiên's grandfather brought home a box of seeds. She didn't know where he got them from, only that they were "gourd seeds from the countryside." He quietly planted them, built a trellis, and watered them every day. Initially, they were just a few weak vines, but before long, the gourd trellis had covered a corner of the garden in green.

Now it stands there, amidst the bustling streets, yet remains as peaceful as a memory. The loofah leaves are large and green, rough to the touch. The flowers are bright yellow, subtly fragrant—not overpowering, but lingering, making passersby stop to inhale the scent. Several loofah fruits hang down, like tiny lanterns, swaying in the breeze.

Little Nhien grew up with that gourd vine. She doesn't know as much about her hometown as I did, but she has her grandfather, the gourd vine, and the stories told to her. Perhaps that's enough to keep a child from feeling lost in this city.

I looked at my child, then at him. An old man, a young boy, standing under the gourd trellis. Time seemed to reconnect, without interruption. What we thought was lost, it turned out, still existed somewhere, if only someone remembered, if only someone would replant it.

The wind blew, gently swaying the gourd vines. I heard what sounded like my grandmother's laughter somewhere nearby. Soft, yet warm. As if my homeland had never left, only waiting for the day to bloom again in my heart.

Text and photos: AN LAM

Source: https://baoangiang.com.vn/thuong-lam-gian-muop-que-nha-a481643.html