The season returns, remembering the yellow straw

In the poor countryside, the golden straw is the soul of life, starting with a warm, flickering fire that dispels the cold night. Sitting by the fire is a pot of sweet potatoes or boiled peanuts. Fairy tales are told by grandmother or mother in a warm, monotonous voice. We compete to sit on grandmother's or mother's laps, competing for the fragrant hot potatoes. The smell of the golden straw is lightly fragrant. That smell makes up the Vietnamese countryside that you and I will never forget. Then there are the soft layers of straw that serve as cushions under the Thai Binh sedge mat, on top is the Nam Dinh sheep blanket. We study in groups of five or six. After finishing studying, we roll over and compete to sleep. Until now, after so many years, we still cannot forget the feeling of rolling on a bed of straw, extremely happy, thanks to the softness of that straw mattress.

During the season, the yellow straw was also dried to feed the buffalo and cows when winter came. The piles of straw were both tall and big, and we often played pretend battles around the piles of straw, or pulled them out and spread them out, lying down there reading books, or humming songs that we would forget the first line of. The chickens also came out of their coops every day to pick up the grains of rice still stuck to the straw, and the brown sparrows, husband and wife, chirped together, carrying the yellow straw, then flying up to the green canopy next to the house to build nests. On sunny days, we often hung hammocks next to the piles of straw, enjoying the scent of the yellow straw. When the harvest was good, the piles of straw were tall and big, showing the prosperity of the countryside, the laughter of children echoed far and wide, and the farmers' faces were radiant with happiness. The golden straw of my hometown when the golden season has come, far from home but every time the season comes, memories of the golden straw appear in my mind, you and I, the children of the hard-working Vietnamese countryside, with poor thatched roofs, village roads, ancient communal houses, wells, village ponds, banyan trees, kapok trees, bamboo hedges, ferry docks, golden rice fields laden with five or ten crops of rice... and so many loved ones, barefoot, wearing brown shirts from the past... perhaps we will never forget the golden straw color and its fragrance, right? Every time the harvest season comes, my heart is filled with longing for the beloved hometown with its laden rice fields and golden straw, no matter where you or I are, no matter where the sea or horizon is.

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