There were afternoons when I lay on a bamboo bed in a house with a red tiled roof, listening to the wind singing through the areca trees in front of the porch, and suddenly felt my soul as light as a kite soaring in the deep blue sky.

The summer wind is not noisy, not hurried. It carries the serenity of the countryside, gentle and profound. The wind quietly passes through each field, caressing each branch of rice that is about to sprout, then passes through the fence of bright red hibiscus, blowing up the hem of a mother's traditional dress, and tossing up the messy hair of a child engrossed in flying a kite.

I remember the summer afternoons, when the sun shines down on the roofs, the wind from the fields is the only thing that makes people feel more comfortable. It penetrates every corner, bringing a bit of chill, making the afternoon nap more gentle. The wind is like a mother's hand, gently stroking the forehead, coaxing a peaceful sleep.

In those days, summer was associated with school holidays, the time when we could play, lie on the edge of the fields listening to the birds chirping, wade in the ditches to catch fish, and laugh loudly throughout the neighborhood. Every afternoon, the wind blew in gusts, carrying with it the voices calling each other to go to the fields. Small footsteps hurriedly followed the kites filled with wind. The wind was like a companion, accompanying us children as we roamed across the fields, mixed with the scent of new straw.

The summer wind also brings back many memories of my childhood. That was when I sat by the window, silently looking at the vast rice fields in the evening light, daydreaming about faraway things. That was when I wrote my first diary entries, listening to the wind blowing through my hair and feeling like I was talking to myself. The wind taught me to love simple peace, to cherish every moment of slow living in the midst of a busy life.

Time passed, I left the village, left the afternoons lying down listening to the wind singing. The noisy city with the whistling wind from the small alleys did not carry the fragrant scent of rice, did not have the sweetness of the countryside. So, every time I returned to my hometown, what I was most excited about was not the familiar food, nor meeting friends, but standing in the middle of the field, spreading my arms to welcome the summer breeze.

The wind was still the same as before, simple, gentle and enough to dispel all the worries accumulated after months of separation. I lay down on the dike again, watching the clouds drift by, listening to the wind playing through my hair, and my heart felt strangely peaceful.

Summer in the countryside has no cool air conditioning, no luxurious trips. There are only endless fields, winds carrying the scent of the earth, children's laughter and the chirping of cicadas under the tree canopy. That is enough to make people remember forever a memory.

The summer wind never gets old, because each time it blows, it evokes very unique and real emotions. It is the call of the homeland, the heartbeat of childhood, a peaceful place in the middle of a busy life. Anyone who has ever lived in the countryside, experienced summers filled with wind, will surely understand that it is a sacred emotion, difficult to name.

Every time summer comes, my heart is filled with nostalgia for my hometown, for the windy afternoons, for my mother’s stooped figure in the fields, and for her squinting smile as she leisurely chewed betel in front of the house. Even though it was just a breeze, it was enough to stir up a whole sky of memories. Once passing through my childhood, the wind left a mark of love that is hard to fade.

Source: https://baogialai.com.vn/gio-dong-mua-ha-post320347.html