There are mornings

In my memory, I still hear my grandmother's voice calling me to get up for school when it was still dark. Outside, it was pouring rain, I was lying wrapped in a warm cotton blanket, just wanting to close my eyes a little longer.

Illustration photo (AI)

There are mornings that I will probably never forget in my life!

In my memory, I still hear my grandmother's voice calling me to get up for school when it's still dark. Outside, it's pouring rain, I'm lying wrapped in a warm cotton blanket, just wanting to close my eyes for a while longer. The rain is drizzling on the thatched roof, water from the gutter trickles down to the old, thoughtful jar in front of the porch. I sit up, suddenly hearing the crackling fire in the kitchen, then the sizzling sound of garlic fat burning on a cast iron pan, sending its fragrance into the room, making me unable to resist. I wake up.

During the days when my mother went to work in the fields far away, my grandmother often woke me up early in the morning. During those days, I also slept in her room, which to me, was the warmest place in my life. I remember the rainy mornings, when the sound of frogs croaking still echoed from the pond behind the house and the darkness still covered the distant countryside, the fire was already burning in my grandmother's kitchen. Sometimes it was a pot of fragrant sticky rice, sometimes it was cold rice from the previous afternoon cooked well and eaten with dried fish drying on the kitchen rack, sometimes it was fragrant fried rice with garlic oil, adding a little fish sauce to become a "specialty" that I will never forget.

Later, every time I saw a child being led by his mother to a restaurant for breakfast, with a variety of dishes to choose from, I would miss the simple yet warm breakfasts of the past. I missed the atmosphere of the countryside when it was not yet dawn, the fire was already crackling in the kitchen, casting my grandmother’s hunched shadow on the leaf wall. My grandfather sat squatting on a stool in the middle of the house, sipping fragrant tea, his neck wrapped in a checkered scarf, coughing occasionally and looking out into the yard which was now gradually getting light. I sat huddled by the fire, chattering away as I reviewed my lessons. The country breeze blew into the house. I found this moment so peaceful!

Now I am far away from my childhood sky. Every time I return to my hometown, sitting in the old kitchen which has now been renovated to be more spacious and sturdy than before, I feel nostalgic for the old dilapidated kitchen. I remember the fragrant smell of fried rice with garlic oil filled with love from my grandmother, I remember the image of my grandmother bending over in the early morning rain, I remember the figure of my grandfather sitting wrapped in a checkered scarf, his eyes looking towards the fields drenched in rain and I remember the old me: naive, innocent, happy, sad, crying,... The me of the most innocent years of my life. Back then, the warmest place for me was probably my grandmother's room with all kinds of blankets and pillows patched together from many scraps of fabric, my best breakfast was probably fried rice with garlic oil and a few drops of fish sauce my mother had saved from the anchovy season last year...

Many times I returned to the old place just to find the space of the past, the feeling of the past. The old scene has changed somewhat, the old house is still there and the rainy seasons still regularly visit my peaceful village. One rainy morning, sitting sipping tea next to my grandfather without my grandmother having to call me many times like when I was a child, I felt so lucky because in that house there is still the warmth of my grandmother, the crisp laughter of my grandfather and my mother still going back and forth morning and evening on the long dike…/.

Hoang Khanh Duy

Source: https://baolongan.vn/co-nhung-som-mai-a203201.html