Remembering the fish on rainy days

In my memory, the rainy and flood days in the poor countryside always brought us children indescribable joy. Because when the floodwaters rose, from far away in the fields, hundreds of fish would follow the water flow into the yard, into the tree roots and bushes.

In those days, just hearing the pattering of rain on the tin roof made my brothers and I fidget. My mother smiled wryly when she saw her children looking up at the sky, praying for more rain and deeper water. Innocent as children, when the floodwaters flooded the yard, my brothers and I shouted with joy. My father quickly ran to get a bamboo basket and a few traps, and took us fishing.

Illustration: Tra My

The freshwater fish were very small, the big ones were as long as a hand, the small ones were as long as a finger, with slender bodies, some had sparkling silver scales. They also had names, but I never seemed to remember them, as soon as my father finished “lecturing”, I forgot. Following the silt, they moved in the murky water, occasionally raising their mouths above the water to gulp air and then diving back down. We children waded in, holding nets in our hands, our eyes attentively watching each fish splashing in the water. Laughter echoed throughout the yard, drenched in a gloomy afternoon.

My father was experienced, skillfully using the bamboo basket to push it down into the low water areas where he thought the freshwater fish would hide. Sometimes, just one push in the basket would reveal dozens of fish wriggling around, chasing around. We cheered with joy and excitement when we saw the freshwater fish in the basket.

The rain cleared, the water gradually receded, and the fish were trapped in small water holes, under the trees, and in the ditches. This was the perfect time for us to go fishing. We searched for each fish one by one, as if we were looking for treasure. Every time I found a live fish in a shallow puddle, I would shout with joy. My small hands carefully scooped up the fish, feeling the cool, slippery skin on my palms.

My mother often cooked the fish she caught in the fields with sour soup. Looking at the small fish, it looked fishy but when eaten, the meat was sweet, without any fishy taste. The sour soup was also simple with tamarind, star fruit, a few green spinach stalks, and a little coriander, creating a simple but sweet dish. The moment the whole family gathered around the hot pot of soup, while it was still drizzling outside, always made me feel sad every time I remembered it. That was the happiest time during the rainy days in my hometown.

Sometimes we put the freshwater fish in the big pot and raised them for a few days. The fish swam around in the pot, occasionally coming up to eat the small pieces of rice we gave them. If the fish were too small, we would release them back into the pot, allowing them to enjoy life a little more. Watching the tiny fish swim in the clear water, I understood that freedom was the most precious thing.

Now, sitting listening to the rain falling on the roof, I recall those days of floods as if they were a distant dream. The fields have been transformed into industrial zones and factories. Occasionally, floods still come, but it seems that no child is as excited to experience the simple joys as we were in the past.

Even though I have reached adulthood and have been away from home for twenty years, in my heart, the image of the silver-colored fish still swims endlessly. They carry my childhood, my love for my beloved homeland, the sweet raindrops of my homeland. Every time it rains, I seem to hear the laughter of the children of the past, and I seem to see the figure of my father standing in the floodwaters, holding a bamboo basket, smiling as he watches his children innocently catch fish…

Source: https://baodaklak.vn/van-hoa-du-lich-van-hoc-nghe-thuat/van-hoc-nghe-thuat/202508/nho-ca-dong-ngay-mua-052046c/