Custard apple season

(Baonghean) - In the narrow corner of the garden, my grandmother planted a custard apple tree. The tree not only provided shade over the square courtyard by the well, but also always brought excitement and anticipation to my younger siblings and me when we heard the cheerful chirping of magpies gathering in the lush, green foliage. The gentle singing of these brown-winged birds seemed to subtly signal to the children that the custard apple season had arrived in our garden...

During the first few weeks of the custard apple season, the usually quiet corner of the garden suddenly became bustling with the chirping of birds and the lively laughter and chatter of my siblings and me. Every day, after finishing our bowls of Grandma's rich fried rice, the first thing we thought of was running to the garden, climbing the custard apple tree, and gently pressing each fruit to see if any new ones had ripened. Everyone was beaming with excitement. We vied with each other to climb the tree, scaring the magpies away, causing them to scatter towards the porch to hide. In the cool morning mist, I could smell the faint, intoxicating scent of ripe custard apples...

Illustrative image - Internet

My grandmother told me that, unlike other fruits, custard apples have very soft skins and are easily scratched or cracked, so when picking them, you must handle them very carefully and gently. Yet sometimes, in my eagerness to impress my younger siblings who were waiting anxiously below, I carelessly broke some ripe custard apples in half. At those times, I would quickly pass the overripe ones down for them to pick and share, happily eating them. Then I would nimbly reach the branches and climb to pick more like a little monkey. Watching the sturdy bamboo basket on the custard apple tree gradually fill with fruit, I couldn't hide my joyful smile...

Every morning, my grandmother would pick a plump custard apple from the basket I gathered, giving each of us a big, healthy one to take to school. She'd neatly arrange the rest in a basket along with a few bunches of ripe, golden bananas, and quietly carry it to the market to sell. Returning home after those busy market days, her basket always contained many small treats for us siblings – sometimes a notebook with cute Mickey Mouse pictures, other times a new, freshly laundered plaid shirt. As she chewed betel nut, she'd tell us how easy it was to sell the custard apples from our garden; many days, the basket would be empty before the market even closed...

On the first or fifteenth day of the lunar month, my kind grandmother would send me to the tree to pick the largest, ripest custard apples so she could arrange them on a plate to place on my grandfather's altar. Trembling, holding a burning incense stick, she would murmur prayers that I couldn't quite hear. When the incense burned out, she would bow and then bring the plate of custard apples down to share with her grandchildren. She slowly explained, "When he was alive, your grandfather loved eating custard apples. But he left me, and it's been over a dozen custard apple seasons since then..." She choked up as she spoke, her eyes welling up with tears. The air in the house, filled with the gentle scent of ripe custard apples mingled with the sweet fragrance of incense, seemed to become heavy. I knew she was sobbing, remembering my grandfather...

I grew up and moved away from my grandmother's small garden, away from a peaceful childhood under the custard apple tree that held so many memories. Occasionally, strolling through the bustling market, I still come across stalls selling custard apples with signs advertising them as specialty custard apples from famous regions. But for me, the custard apples from my grandmother's garden are always the best. I thought that the hustle and bustle of life had made me forget those simple, rustic fruits from the garden. Yet, sometimes I suddenly feel a pang of longing for each soft, sweet, fragrant segment of custard apple that nourished my siblings and me until now...

The city is full of sounds, but sometimes it lacks the familiar chirping of a magpie, reminding me that the custard apples in our garden are ripening. Grandma, far away in the countryside, I'm sure your heart is overflowing with longing?

Phan Duc Loc