The sound of a broom in the rain

The first rains of the season poured down, suddenly roaring like the joyful shouts of summer. The parched, parched rice fields burst forth, welcoming the cool water. The irrigation ditches in the fields burst with laughter, dancing to the lively music of the rain. The rain brought forth the earthy, muddy scent, mingled with the sweet fragrance of young rice, a scent that was intoxicating. On the vast expanse of the countryside, the summer rain, like a passionate dance, was brimming with life.

Source: Internet

The rain had just stopped, and the entire field awakened, joyfully shaking off its long slumber. Water droplets still clung to the rice leaves, sparkling like tiny pearls in the morning sun. A gentle breeze swept through, and the countryside breathed a refreshing sigh of relief. The scent of the earth after the rain transformed into a damp, warm fragrance, like the grateful breath of the earth sent to the clouds. Amidst the rustling wind, the rhythmic croaking of frogs and the splashing of fish woven together a vibrant summer song.

The rain, like an old friend who's been away for a long time, has just arrived, inviting dormant memories to awaken within me. Sitting quietly on my mother's porch, I immerse myself in the giggling laughter of my childhood, the sounds of rain showers from years past. Suddenly, I feel a pang of nostalgia for those afternoons in the countryside, where my tiny feet once played in the mud, chasing grasshoppers with my friends in the rain.

My memories of childhood summers are still vivid. When it was about to rain, the whole family would rush out into the yard, not to bathe, but to… save the rice. The golden grains of rice, freshly dried, had to be gathered up quickly before the rain soaked them. Sometimes, the rain would come suddenly, and everyone would only have time to frantically gather the pile of rice and cover it with a tarp.

Back then, every midday I would secretly sneak away from my mother to play with my friends. Sometimes we'd play marbles, or firecrackers, other times we'd play spinning tops, or go out to the fields to catch shrimp. But only during harvest season, when the family was drying rice, did I not get scolded by my mother for skipping my midday nap. I was given the responsibility of watching the sky and the weather; whenever I saw dark clouds gathering, I'd shout for everyone to run and save the rice.

Eager to complete the task, I sat on the porch, my eyes gazing dreamily at the bright sunshine, then intently at the rice paddy, wondering how it could possibly rain in such sunshine. But then, after a brief moment of distraction, glancing at the guava tree in the corner of the garden, I was startled by the sudden gust of wind. A moment later, a rumble of thunder echoed from afar, and the sky instantly darkened with clouds. "Mom, sister, it's going to rain!"

Hearing my frantic cry, my mother and sister rushed out into the yard, one with a rake, the other with a broom, quickly and swiftly gathering the rice grains. I eagerly grabbed the tiny broom my grandmother had braided for me and swept the rice with my mother. Even now, I can't forget the hurried, clattering footsteps, the rhythmic scraping of the brooms on the yard, and the sound of the rain as we rushed to collect the rice. That bustling, rapid sound didn't contain any weariness, but rather a harmonious symphony, filled with both anxiety and happiness at protecting the precious "grain" of our family.

There were also years when the summer rains dragged on endlessly, and my mother and sister toiled in the fields harvesting rice, racing against time. While the adults hurried about harvesting, we children, carefree and unconcerned, excitedly gathered to catch grasshoppers. Each of us held a small stick, tied a plastic bag to it to chase the grasshoppers into the bag, then we'd shake it back and forth until they were stunned, and finally pour them into a large bottle we wore on our hips. The feeling of shouting in the field while chasing grasshoppers, hearing their splashing sounds in the bottle, was so joyful and happy.

When the bottles were full of grasshoppers, we gathered on a high mound, excitedly showing off our "spoils" with pride. Then we argued excitedly about who caught the most. Our clear, melodious laughter echoed through the pouring rain. Holding our bottles full of grasshoppers, everyone was thrilled, anticipating a delicious, fragrant dish of stir-fried grasshoppers with lime leaves for dinner. Add a plate of boiled water spinach with young starfruit and a bowl of pickled eggplant, and our harvest meal would be truly satisfying.

The days of incessant rain meant that after threshing, the farmers' rice had no sun to dry, so they had to leave it outside on the porch and cover the inside of the house. Our small, one-story house was then covered in damp rice, giving off a musty smell. Those were the days I saw my mother sleepless, silently watching the endless rain outside. She sighed, reached out and turned on the fan, her rough hands carefully turning over each layer of rice to dry it. I silently watched each drop of sweat from my mother soak into the rice, as if it were imbuing it with the salty taste of the earth, the rain, and a lifetime of hard work. Back then, I was young and didn't fully understand my mother's worries, but now, thinking back to her eyes, I know that for my mother and the farmers, rain was a test of patience and love.

There was a torrential downpour that lasted for several days, flooding the small road from the riverbank to my house up to my knees. Ignoring the adults' worries about the rice grains sprouting, we children, bareheaded, happily played in the rain and splashed through the water. The flooded road was filled with clear, joyful laughter. My cousin carried a fishing rod with baited frogs to catch them. Every time he caught a big, plump frog, we would cheer excitedly: "Frogs croak 'uom uom' / The pond is full of water!"

Now, the summer rains still come, but none of the children of yesteryear bathe in the rain anymore, nor shout, "Mom, the rain's coming!" Only I remain, standing by the old porch whenever it rains, silently watching the rain and whispering to innocent, carefree memories. I realize that the most vibrant sounds of childhood weren't the laughter during rain showers, but the hurried sweeping of my mother's and sister's brooms, guiding each "pearl" of rain to dry places. That sound, hurried, urgent, and full of worry, was strangely warm. In the roar of the rain, I could hear my mother's sighs fading into the thunder of yesteryear, and clearly see each drop of sweat silently falling onto the sprouting rice grains.

Every rain eventually stops, but the sound of my mother sweeping rice in the rain still echoes in my mind. The rustling sound of the broom from years ago not only stirs memories but also deeply imprints in my soul a simple yet sacred truth: the greatest harvest in life isn't in the fields, but in the love that sprouts from worries and shines golden from my mother's silent hardships throughout her life. Those very sounds amidst the storm taught me that some hardships are not meant to destroy, but to protect and nurture what is most precious, keeping it ever green…

Source: https://baothainguyen.vn/van-nghe-thai-nguyen/202507/tieng-choi-trong-mua-4bb278c/