The season returns, remembering the yellow straw

In the poor countryside, the golden straw is the soul of life, starting with a warm, flickering fire that dispels the cold night. Sitting by the fire is a pot of sweet potatoes or boiled peanuts, fairy tales are told by grandmother or mother in a warm, monotonous voice. We compete to sit on grandmother's or mother's laps, competing for the fragrant hot potatoes, the smell of the golden straw is lightly fragrant, that smell makes up the Vietnamese countryside that you and I will never forget. Then there are the soft layers of straw lining the Thai Binh sedge mat, on top is the Nam Dinh sheep blanket, the group of five or six of us study together in groups, after studying we roll over and compete to sleep, until now, after so many years, we still cannot forget the feeling of rolling on the straw bed, extremely happy, thanks to the softness of that straw mattress.

During the season, the yellow straw was also dried to feed the buffalo and cows when winter came. The piles of straw were both tall and big, and we often played pretend games around the piles of straw, or pulled them out and spread them out, lying down there reading books, or humming songs, remembering the first line and forgetting the last. The chickens also came out of their coops every day to pick up the grains of rice still stuck on the straw, and the brown sparrows, husband and wife, chirped together, carrying the yellow straw, then flew up to the green canopy next to the house to build nests. On sunny days, we often hung hammocks next to the piles of straw, enjoying the scent of the yellow straw. When the harvest was good, the piles of straw were both tall and big, showing the prosperity of the countryside, the laughter of children echoed far and wide, and the farmers' faces were radiant with happiness. The golden straw of my hometown when the golden season has come, far from home but every time the season comes, memories of the golden straw appear in my mind, you and I, the children of the hard-working Vietnamese countryside, with poor thatched roofs, village roads, ancient communal houses, wells, village ponds, banyan trees, cotton trees, bamboo hedges, ferry docks, golden rice fields heavy with rice crops five and ten… and so many loved ones, barefoot, in brown shirts of the past… perhaps never to forget the color of the golden straw and its fragrance, right? Every time the harvest season comes, my heart is filled with longing for the beloved hometown with its heavy rice fields and golden straw, no matter where you or I are, in any corner of the world.

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