 |
My childhood was associated with the fields stretching as far as the eye could see, the rice fields filled with the scent of straw. I remember the early mornings, when my sisters and I were still sleeping soundly, my parents would get up one by one to prepare meals, and go out to harvest rice with sickles. A while later, we were awakened by the bustling sounds of the harvest season. Following the bumpy dirt road, the grass on both sides still wet with night dew, the children happily immersed themselves in the vast, open space of nature. In the middle of the vast fields, the sound of sickles cutting rice mixed with the cheerful, resounding voices and laughter. The sun gradually rose higher, the bright sunlight made drops of sweat roll down my father's dark face, wetting the back of my mother's faded brown shirt. It was so hard, but everyone was happy, because after months of care, the fields had rewarded the farmers with a bumper crop of rice.
During the harvest season, children in my village often followed their grandparents and parents to the fields, both to help with chores and to play and have fun. We ran and jumped in the fields that had just been harvested, shouting and chasing grasshoppers and locusts, competing to pick up the remaining rice grains. Sometimes we invited each other to the ditches along the edge of the fields to catch fish, our faces and limbs covered in mud. Sometimes we sat on the edge of the fields, picking grass and fighting chickens. When we were bored, we lay on the grass under the banyan tree in the middle of the field, enjoying the cool breeze, watching the clouds and singing. The best thing was the time we made a big kite with our own hands, the frame was made of thin bamboo strips, the wings were glued with old notebook paper, and brought it to the grass near the field to fly. We ran across the field, the wind blew fiercely, making the dry straw flutter. With hurried footsteps and a pounding heart, the kite finally took off, soaring through the sky in an explosion of joy. The brilliant sunlight spread golden like honey on the kite filled with wind, carrying the dream of flying high and far to new lands… At the end of the harvest, the children happily ran after the modified cart loaded with bundles of bright yellow rice, dangling in their hands strings of fish, strings of crabs or plump green spoonbills. The childhood memories associated with the fields were as pure and innocent as young rice blooming in the sun.
I left my hometown to work in the city a long time ago, my feet no longer smell of the muddy fields. But my heart is always filled with love and nostalgia for the countryside. Every harvest season, passing through the fields, I remember my mother's hard-working appearance in the past. And in my dreams, I still seem to hear the rustling wind drifting through the harvest fields, carrying the deep, sweet scent of ripe rice and straw.
Lam Hong
Source: https://baonamdinh.vn/van-hoa-nghe-thuat/202506/thuong-nho-dong-que-6e425c2/
Comment (0)