Remember the smell of straw

I was born in the countryside, so my childhood was immersed in the musty smell of the fields, the strong smell of straw from my hometown. My friends are now all in different places. Some have gone to foreign countries to make a living, some have married into the North and then hurried to the South with their husbands... as for me, I live and work in the city. Every time I smell the scent of new rice wafting in the afternoon breeze, my homesickness is sharp and piercing.

Illustration: LNDUY

Oh my! I miss the familiar smell of straw mixed with the blue smoke of the afternoon of years gone by...so far away that it makes my heart ache. In my memory, the countryside fields are like a colorful picture. They are the wild flowers growing all over the dike slopes, swaying and waiting for the sun every morning. They are the clumps of wild grass lingeringly holding the feet of those who pass by like a promise to return. During the harvest season, the fields are bustling with laughter from very early in the morning.

At that time, agriculture was not yet modernized as it is today. Mothers and sisters quickly harvested rice, their backs drenched in sweat, their white hats bobbing on the fields like storks calling for the coming of the season. On the country roads, carts of rice were hurriedly returned to dry in the sun.

Right from the beginning of the village, every house had a yard full of golden rice, and we children often walked back and forth on the rice yard, called “plowing the rice”, to dry the rice quickly. Sometimes, when the sun was hot, a strong wind blew, dark clouds gathered, the whole family gathered around the dinner table, hurriedly stood up, racing against the capricious afternoon rain to “save the rice”.

Farm work continues day after day. Only when the rice is dried can one relax next to the pot of new rice.

In a flash, the fields were harvested. Everywhere there was straw, even on the paths. After the harvest, in my hometown, every house had a stack of straw in the corner of the garden. I loved the smell of straw from my hometown.

It lingered, clinging to the bridge of the nose, spicy, warm. The smell of straw mixed with the sweat of farmers carrying hoes to the fields every day, the sun burning their backs; the smell of mother's hard work and toil; the smell of joy from bumper crops and the smell of sadness etched deep in the eyes of farmers after each failed crop.

The smell of straw is the smell of the fields that people from the countryside cannot forget. Missing the old days, the fragrant smell of straw, so for me, "just arriving at the hometown/the smell of straw/has already made me crazy/with all my heart" (Bang Huu). Many times, in the noisy city, amidst the hardships of making a living, I just want to take a deep breath to connect with my memories.

Thinking back to the days when I was a bareheaded and barefooted child, curled up in the yellow straw, playing hide and seek with my friends. Memories of my hometown are always deeply ingrained in the scent of the fields and the wind of the fields. There, there was a faint, lingering smell of straw that gradually spread into the nostalgic land. The smell of straw that seemed to have been forgotten somewhere, suddenly awakened in a feeling of excitement.

Years passed, when I suddenly realized that I was no longer young, the countryside fields had become an unforgettable part of my memories. That was the innocent, pure childhood of a person's life. Remembering the smell of straw, I carried with me my desires and dreams to collect love for myself. Suddenly, there was a golden straw floating in the sunshine and wind this afternoon...

An Khanh

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