Lychee season

(Baonghean) - There's no season I remember more than the lychee season in my hometown. It's not just the sweet, lingering taste on my tongue, but also the salty flavor of the hard work my parents put in to make this harvest possible. It's only mid-May, and Mom already calls to say: "The sour lychee tree in front of our house already has bright red fruit. When it ripens, Mom will send some down by truck for you!"

Closing my eyes, I can vividly picture the clusters of lychees laden with fruit, the fragrant aroma emanating from the reddish-brown skin, the rough trunk, and the green leaves. Sometimes, in my thoughts, I imagine that the lychee trees, when in bloom and bearing fruit, are as full of life as a mother with full breasts, nourishing her child. Every lychee season, the usually quiet garden becomes more vibrant as bees and butterflies flock there from the moment the lychees bloom until they sting the ripe, sweet fruit. I picture my father diligently searching for the stink bugs clinging to the young, fragile lychee clusters each afternoon. I picture my mother, toiling and carefully bundling the lychees to sell to the workers returning late at the afternoon market.

Illustrative image - Source: Internet

Many times, after coming home from school, I would see my mother climbing the lychee trees, her skin burned by stink bugs or her eyes swollen, and I felt so sorry for her. One afternoon, under the slanted sun, looking out at the lychee orchard, I no longer felt that overwhelming joy, but a deep sadness because of the sweat that had fallen on the barren land.

I've been studying in the city for four years now, four seasons of lychee harvests passing by amidst my parents' hardships. Every time I hear that lychee prices have dropped this year, my heart aches, knowing that my mother will have many sleepless nights burdened by worries weighing on her small shoulders. I called home to tell her I'd found a part-time job and wouldn't have to ask her for money anymore. I thought she'd be relieved of some of her burden, but from her trembling voice, I could tell she was crying on the other end of the line. She told me: "Try your best in your studies, don't worry about money. Our lychee crop is very good this year."

My eyes sting, the sweet taste on my tongue replaced by the salty taste of tears and boundless love. This year, the entire North is experiencing a severe drought. There are no more heavy rains to make the lychee blossoms fall, but the drought has also reduced my mother's lychee harvest, and the hotter weather has caused the price of lychees to drop even further. The more I go out, the more I feel sorry for the farmers who toil year-round in this ever-changing market economy.

After the dream, I caught the scent of ripe lychees in the garden. The next morning, I felt a pang of nostalgia for a distant memory. Back when I was little, the lychee trees were low, and the village roads were bumpy. My mother would carry heavy baskets on her shoulders, one side a basket of ripe red lychees, the other a me sitting and nibbling on them. That image reminded me of my mother's hardships and stirred up feelings of maternal love. Suddenly, I realized it had been four years since I'd been home during lychee season.

Vu Thi Huyen Trang