Nostalgia for the countryside

In June, the sun blazed intensely along the long journey to visit my mother. Passing the dike slope where an old flame tree blazed with vibrant red blossoms, I saw the vast, boundless rice fields stretching out before me, shimmering with the golden hue of ripe rice. It was also the time when my hometown bustled with activity as harvest season began. The gentle fragrance of ripe rice permeated the air, prompting anyone passing by to stop and take a deep breath.

My childhood was intertwined with vast rice fields stretching as far as the eye could see, fields fragrant with the scent of straw. I remember the early mornings, while my siblings and I were still sound asleep, our parents would get up to prepare meals, grab their sickles, and head to the fields to harvest the rice. Soon after, we too would be awakened by the bustling sounds of the harvest season. Following the bumpy dirt path, the grass on either side still damp with dew, the children happily immersed themselves in the expansive, open space of nature. Amidst the boundless fields, the rustling sound of sickles cutting rice mingled with the joyful sounds of laughter and conversation. As the sun rose higher, its dazzling rays caused beads of sweat to roll down my father's tanned face and soak my mother's faded brown shirt. Despite the hard work, everyone was happy, because after months of tending the fields, the rice had rewarded the farmers with a bountiful harvest.

During harvest season, the children in my village would often follow their grandparents and parents to the fields, both to help with chores and to play and have fun. We would run and jump in the freshly harvested fields, shouting and chasing grasshoppers and crickets, vying to pick up any leftover rice stalks. Sometimes we'd go to the irrigation ditches along the fields to catch fish, our faces and hands covered in mud. Other times we'd sit perched on the edge of the field, picking weeds and having cockfights. When we got tired of playing, we'd lie on the grass under the banyan tree in the middle of the field, enjoying the cool breeze, gazing at the clouds, and singing. My favorite was when we made a big kite ourselves, with a frame made of thin bamboo sticks and wings glued from old notebook paper, and we'd fly it on the grass near the field. We'd run across the field, the strong wind blowing, sending the dry straw swirling around. With hurried footsteps and a pounding heart filled with excitement, the kite finally soared into the air, gliding and fluttering in the sky amidst overwhelming joy. The brilliant sunlight cast a golden glow like honey on the wind-filled kite, carrying with it dreams of flying high and far to new lands… At the end of the harvest, the children happily chased after the carts laden with bundles of golden rice, their hands dangling strings of fish, crabs, or plump, glistening green grasshoppers. These childhood memories connected to the rice fields remained as pure and innocent as the young rice blossoms in the sun.

I left my hometown to build a career in the city a long time ago, and the smell of mud from the rice fields no longer touches my feet. But deep in my heart, I always cherish the memories of my homeland. Every harvest season, as I walk through the fields, I remember my mother's hardworking, weary appearance from years ago. And in my dreams, I still seem to hear the gentle rustling of the wind drifting across the harvest fields, carrying the scent of ripe rice and straw—a deep, sweet fragrance.

Lam Hong

Source: https://baonamdinh.vn/van-hoa-nghe-thuat/202506/thuong-nho-dong-que-6e425c2/