Smell of the countryside

Mom quietly tilted the spoon to fill the spoon with each slice of potato.

A family of four or five with only one bowl of rice, without potatoes, how could they have enough food? After many years, she missed it, regretted it, and then told herself: It was because she was sickly and was too pampered by her grandmother. But her little brother, whose hair was burnt by the sun, was just over five years old, still eagerly sat there chewing, looking at her with a look of surprise.

Illustration: Dao Tuan

I remember the smell of sunshine on the hills. The green puddles hidden under the young rice fields smelling of milk. The smell of sunshine in the newly cut straw, in the straw that has rotted until late autumn. But the smell of sunshine in the bowl of dried sweet potatoes still scares me. I dare not look back because every time I left the village to catch the whistle-blowing market train, my eyes filled with tears. I dare not look back when the north winds blowing into the valley made the grass bend down, shrink, and freeze. Sitting by the window of the train, the burdens of packaging piled up, the sound of coughing, the smell of cigarette smoke, the sound of the forest workers cursing with a strong smell of alcohol, the sound of children crying, I still can't shake the thought that out there in the north windy fields, the weather is freezing cold. Mother's cracked feet are soaked in deep mud. I dare not look back because the cries are stuck in my throat. Who knows when the village in this low valley will be as full and happy as the peaceful countryside in the poems I've read...

Today, I laughed a lot with my companion when we saw the railway just passing over the hillside. The young green rice fields were pleasing to the eyes, the banks were full of yellow and white butterfly flowers, and a wooden board with two arrows pointing to the station suddenly appeared.

I'm going home!

My house is on the other side of the hill. The hill that once towered over the trees now looks like a small, overgrown oasis.

The hill rises above the horizon with rows and rows of green cajuput trees, then spills its green color over the undulating young rice fields.

In the midst of the greenery, there are large, spacious houses with wooden doors, molded walls, and red and blue tiled roofs. There are large asphalt roads leading to the village and concrete roads leading to each alley. We were surprised to see a rather large gas station. A gas station for a village! How convenient for the business and daily activities of the people.

On the slope leading down to the station and the market, there are several houses built in the style of garden villas, with fences full of climbing flowers, and on the roadside, purple flowers are swaying and showing off their colors.

I could not find any trace of the barefoot children who had been herding buffaloes on the muddy road. I could no longer remember where the fields of grass that had been blown by the wind toward the rolling train were now. The kindergarten, the drying yard, the grocery store, the clinic, the committee office... The new buildings filled in and erased the sad memories of the days when I left my hometown for the city.

I wore a silk ao dai with my sisters to attend the inauguration ceremony of the family church. The colorful ao dai fluttered in the sunlight. The road to the church passed over a small bridge between two banks of swaying daisies. I laughed so much that suddenly tears welled up. When I couldn't see the young potato patch, I suddenly remembered the smell of sunlight in the bowl of rice mixed with dried potato...

The gentle autumn moon poured down on the brick floor. My sister and I sat in the large kitchen with a TV screen and a wooden dining table with a variety of dishes. Home-raised pork and chicken, young vegetables, fish soup just caught from the lake. My sister was a skillful cook. Every dish was delicious with the fragrant aroma of the countryside. I stopped my chopsticks on a bamboo tray covered with banana leaves. The potatoes were just roasted and piping hot.

- Are you still afraid of the smell of dried potatoes?

I took small bites. The sweet potatoes were roasted in charcoal until golden brown, with a sweet, nutty flavor.

- I like grilled potatoes, especially foreign potatoes grilled over blackberry charcoal. But I'm still afraid of dried potatoes mixed with rice.

Mother's eyes welled up with tears when she mentioned her grandmother. We were like children returning home with dry firewood and young leaves, with the sound of flutes at night and the sound of rice pounding at noon.

I walked out into the yard. The well had a pump installed, the old bucket was still hanging on a pomelo branch. The chickens had voluntarily gone to the coop since dusk, their legs curled up, eyes half-closed and half-open...

We have gone too far and only wish to return. The dreams of vast horizons and the hurried discourses of daily life suddenly fade away when the moonlight sprinkles silver and the scent of the childhood garden fills the eyes. How happy are those who have a place to return to!