The sound of brooms in the rain

The first rain of the season poured down, suddenly and loudly like the cheers of summer. The dry, barren rice fields burst into tears to welcome the cool water. The ditch in the middle of the field burst into laughter, dancing to the bustling music of the rain. The rain stirred up the pungent smell of mud and the sweet smell of young rice, blending together, fragrant to the heart. On the wide shirt of the countryside, the summer rain was like a passionate dance, full of vitality.

Source: Internet

The rain had just stopped, and the entire field woke up, happily shaking off its long sleep. The drops of water still lingering on the rice leaves sparkled like tiny pearls in the morning sun. The wind blew by, and the countryside breathed in contentment. The smell of the soil after the rain turned into a moist, warm fragrance, like the grateful breath of the earth sent to the clouds. Amidst the rustling wind, there was the rhythm of the frogs croaking, and the sound of tilapia splashing, weaving a lively summer song.

The rain was like an old friend visiting after a long time, just entering the door, it brought back the dormant memories in me. Quietly standing on my mother's porch, I joined in the giggles of my childhood during the rain showers of the past. Suddenly, I was nostalgic for the afternoons in the old countryside, where my tiny feet used to play in the mud, playing with my friends chasing grasshoppers in the rain.

I still remember the summer days when I was a child, when it was about to rain, the whole family rushed out into the yard not to bathe, but to… collect rice. The newly dried golden rice grains had to be collected quickly before the rain got them wet. Sometimes, the rain came suddenly, everyone only had time to hastily collect the rice and cover it with a tarp.

Back then, every noon I sneaked out of my mother’s way to play with my friends. Sometimes I was busy playing shuttlecock, playing with firecrackers, sometimes I was busy playing top spinning top, or inviting each other to go to the fields to catch shrimp. But only during the harvest season when we were drying rice did my mother scold me for skipping my afternoon nap. I was given the important responsibility of keeping an eye on the sky and earth, and whenever I saw dark clouds coming, I would call everyone to run and collect rice.

Eager for this task, I sat on the porch, my eyes dreamily looking up at the bright sunny sky, then staring at the rice yard, wondering, how could it rain with such sunshine? However, just a few minutes of inattention and looking at the guava tree in the corner of the garden, I was startled when I saw the wind blowing. A moment later, a rumbling thunder echoed from afar, the sky suddenly filled with dark clouds. "Mom, sister, it's going to rain!".

Hearing my hoarse voice, my mother and sister rushed out into the yard, one holding a rake, the other a broom, quickly sweeping the rice. I also eagerly held the tiny broom that my grandmother had woven for me, and swept it repeatedly with my mother. Until now, I still cannot forget the sound of hurried footsteps, the rustling of the broom on the yard floor, and the sound of the rain each time the rice was swept. That bustling, urgent sound did not contain any fatigue, but was like a harmony, containing both anxiety and happiness when protecting the precious "pearl" of the whole family.

There were also years when the summer rains were persistent and endless, my mother and sister went to the fields to harvest rice, racing against the weather for every bit of time. While the adults were busy harvesting, we kids, without any worries, hurriedly went out to catch grasshoppers. Each of us held a small stick, tied a plastic bag to scare the grasshoppers into the bag, then shook them upside down until they fainted, then poured them into a big bottle worn on our side. The feeling of shouting in the fields while chasing grasshoppers, listening to the sound of them jumping in the bottle was very joyful and happy.

When the bottle was full of grasshoppers, we gathered on a high mound, happily showing off our “spoils of war” to each other. Then we argued loudly about who caught more. The laughter was clear and resounding under the pouring rain. Holding the bottle full of grasshoppers, everyone was excited, tonight we would have a dish of grasshoppers fried with lemon leaves, fatty and fragrant in the kitchen corner. Add a plate of boiled water spinach with young star fruit and a bowl of eggplant, and the meal would be very delicious.

The days of torrential rain also made the rice of the farmers after threshing, without any sun to dry, just left on the porch and covered the whole house. My family's bungalow at that time was covered with damp rice, giving off a musty smell. Those were the days when I saw my mother restless, silently watching the rain outside without stopping. She sighed, reached out to turn on the fan to rotate evenly throughout the house, her rough hands carefully turning over each layer of rice to dry. I silently watched each drop of my mother's sweat fall into the rice, as if it was infusing it with the salty taste of the soil, of the rain, of a lifetime of hard work. At that time, I was still young, I did not fully understand my mother's worries, but now, thinking back to my mother's eyes, I know that rain, to my mother and the farmer, is a test of patience and love.

There was a spell of heavy rain for several days, the small road from the riverbank to my house was knee-deep in water. Not thinking about the adults' worries about the rice growing thickly, we bareheaded children happily went out to bathe in the rain and wade through the water. The flooded road was filled with clear laughter. My cousin carried a fishing rod with frog bait to catch frogs. Every time he caught a big fat frog, we happily cheered: "The frogs croak uom uom/The pond is full of water".

Now, the summer rains still come, but the children of the past no longer bathe in the rain, and no longer shout “Mom, it’s raining!”. Only I, every time it rains, stand by the porch of the old house, silently watching the rain and whispering to innocent, carefree memories. I realize that the most bustling sound of my childhood is not the laughter during the rain showers, but the sound of my mother and sister’s brooms hurriedly sweeping each “pearl” into a dry place. That sound, hurried, rushed, worried, but strangely warm. In the rushing sound of the rain, I can hear my mother’s sighs drowning in the thunder of the past, clearly seeing each drop of her sweat quietly falling onto the sprouting rice grains.

Every rain will eventually stop, but the sound of my mother sweeping rice in the rain still echoes in me. The rustling sound of the broom in the past now not only stirs up memories, but also deeply imprints in my soul a simple yet sacred truth: The greatest harvest of a person's life is not in the fields, but the love that sprouts from worries, and shines golden from the silent hardships of my mother's life. It was the sounds in that storm that taught me that there are hardships that come not to destroy, but to protect and nurture the most precious things to stay green forever...

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