The bustling summer season

(AI)

I returned to my village one early summer afternoon. The golden sunlight streamed down the old thatched roofs, sparkling like specks of dust from memories. Only the gentle breeze rustled through the leaves, carrying the dry heat of years gone by. The smell of burnt grass, dry earth, freshly dried straw… smells I thought had faded with time, yet today they were strangely vividly revived.

I wandered aimlessly along the old paths, where the sun-scorched footprints of a carefree youth once rested. These red dirt roads, cracked in the dry season and muddy in the rainy season, were once our whole world , a place where we could tilt our heads back to catch the rain, run around shirtless, regardless of the mud and sand clinging to us. I used to sit for hours, scribbling on the ground with bamboo sticks, drawing naive dreams I couldn't name, then giggling to myself when I saw the sky was about to rain. My friends from those days—Phong, the mischievous one; Huong, the crybaby; Ty, the dark-skinned but quick-witted squirrel—have now scattered in different directions. I still keep in touch with some, while others have completely faded from my memory. Only I remain, walking along these familiar, now-faded paths, carrying fragments of memories I never had the chance to put into words. There's a certain feeling, so quiet, so pure, like an underground stream murmuring – an emotion only those who grew up in the sun-drenched countryside can understand. This sunny season, I'm no longer the boy I once was. My shoulders are burdened with worries, my steps are no longer playful, but strangely, amidst this golden, tranquil sunshine of my homeland, something within me stirs again, a vague, fragile tremor, like the chirping of cicadas in the leafy canopy, a feeling only the sunshine of my hometown can awaken.

On the dry rice paddies, children still frolicked and played, their tiny feet imprinted on the cracked earth like innocent exclamation marks of childhood. Their clear, melodious laughter echoed in the sunlight, like a vague call from the past, a call from the days when I too was a child, running through the dry fields, chasing dragonflies, clinging to every moment of summer. I remember my grandmother, her thin figure sitting on the small porch, fanning herself with a worn-out palm-leaf fan. In the sweltering midday heat, her voice was steady as she told stories of Tam Cam and the starfruit tree, as gentle as a midday breeze. I remember my mother, the hardworking woman with her neatly tied-up hair, mending clothes on the tiled steps, needle and thread moving swiftly. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead, blending with the golden sunlight, falling onto the hem of the dress she was sewing. Her eyes then were so gentle, yet also reflected so much worry—a look I only learned to understand much later. I remember the chipped earthenware teapot where my mother brewed green tea every afternoon. The tea's aroma wasn't strong, but it was enough to seep into my heart like a gentle habit. The scent of the evening kitchen smoke clung lightly to my mother's hair, to the hem of my dress, to every breeze blowing through the hedge... It was the scent of home, the scent of peace that I could never find again, no matter where I went, except here, in my simple and quiet memories.

This year's sunny season has suddenly stirred in my heart a deeper, more poignant sense of the quiet stirrings of time. The sunshine of my homeland not only dries the thatched roofs, the brick courtyards, and the clothes hanging on the lines, but also dries up memories I thought I had forgotten. The scent of sunshine mixes with the fragrance of dry earth, the lingering smell of straw from the previous harvest—all blending into a simple, rustic symphony, a melody only those who have experienced those bygone seasons can truly understand.

I see the cracks in the earth stirring, awakening summers that have long been dormant in my memory. Sitting under the old banyan tree at the edge of the village, I reach out to catch a patch of sunlight swaying between the leaves. This banyan tree used to be a whole world of childhood for me and Tham, my neighbor with dark eyes and a laughter as clear as the midday cicadas. We used to sit here, sharing bags of candied plums and competing to count the fallen banyan fruits. One day, when it suddenly rained, we huddled together under the thick canopy, and Tham whispered, "I wish that someday, when we're grown up, we could still sit here like this." I remember that wish clearly, but Tham and her family moved away one distant summer. The banyan tree is still here, its leaves still green, providing shade as before, only the two of us are no longer sitting together.

The sun made me squint, but in that dazzling light, I saw my childhood smiling. A small, peaceful smile amidst the hustle and bustle of the sunny season.

Linh Chau

Source: https://baolongan.vn/xon-xao-mua-nang-a198117.html