On Sunday morning, I decided to take my son to visit his parents. Although I married nearby, I only go back home two or three times a year. Partly because of my work, partly because he has to go to school.
The inter-commune road was wide and spacious in the cool autumn weather. Occasionally, a pair of larks chirped in the air, making the countryside even more quiet. Each gust of wind blew from the North, bringing the scent of rice that was bending down on both sides of the main road into the face. The scent was gentle, cool, and hard to name. It was not as pungent as the scent of young grass, nor as strong as the scent of straw drying under the scorching sun of the Central region. It was the pure scent of a heavenly pearl patiently collecting every drop of quintessence from the earth, from the water, from the crystal clear air of an early autumn morning.
Soon, the harvesters will return to the large fields, their path will quickly swallow up each field. Rice will be loaded into sacks, followed by Kien An trucks to all the villages. Rice will spread out in a golden color on the smooth, clean concrete roads. Sometimes, the rice will be purchased and weighed right on the edge of the field for the farmers. Life changes every day, only the joys and sorrows, gains and losses of those who cling to the fields, cling to the fields, are still there.
And inevitably, as is the law, the fields will rest after months of hard work nurturing the plants. The fields will only have bare gray stubble left by the relentless sun and rain. When the weather is clear, the fields will have dry plowed furrows. When spring comes, when people welcome water to work, the fields will revive. The smell of white smoke drifting sideways, the smell of the earth drying for months will be replaced by the sweet fragrance of young, fresh rice. And so season after season.
By natural reflex, I tried to drive slowly. My eyes, accustomed to looking at the computer, seemed to soften before the endless golden carpet of rice and rice. At that moment, I was greedy, wishing like someone else:“I want to turn off the sunlight so the color doesn’t fade. I want to tie up the wind so the scent doesn’t fly away.”(In a Hurry – Xuan Dieu). The poet knows that it is impossible but still dreams of it. As for me, with each turn of the wheel, I know that I am losing much more than that! If only I were not so obsessed with making a living. If only I spent more time taking my child back to the countryside. Walking barefoot on the grass with my child. Watching the sunrise over the fields after a foggy night with my child. Watching the sunset on a sunny day with my child. Saving a stranded kite with my child… I will teach my child how a grain of rice sprouts, grows, how a rice flower bows its head…
Suddenly I bent down, my little son had pulled down his mask by himself, his face full of pleasure and joy.
- Rice plant, rice plant to get rice to cook for me to eat, right mom?
- Yes, son!
- I hear a sweet scent in the wind, Mom.
I smiled, ignored it, and deliberately did not remind my child about the mask. Because I understood that the past few days of the epidemic were really persistent and suffocating. At this age, my child has been disadvantaged in many ways compared to me. Even though he has delicious food and nice clothes every day, and his life is full and comfortable.
The small body wrapped in my arms seemed to try to stretch up. I could clearly hear each deep breath, inhaling the scent of the meadows. I thought to myself, the little boy already knows how to enjoy life! And I also know, he is starting to love life from the simple things like I did.
Article: Hoe Nguyen
Illustration: Hai Vuong - Ho Long - Document
Far away
The article makes me miss my roots so much.