And the scents from the land, from the river, have somehow crept into my memory. The pleasant, gentle scents, reminding me of many familiar figures. Perhaps scents are something that easily disappears but are also something that remains in my memory for the last time. Because deep impressions, memories of people we have met, places we have been to often start from a distinct scent, difficult to mix with each other. We can easily return to the past, when we recognize somewhere a familiar scent, guiding our mind.

Like the time I wandered in a suburb, before my eyes were the fields of ripe rice, the corn fields blooming green, the pond banks swaying with duckweed. And permeating the entire suburb was the smell of the pristine fields, the fragrant scent of ripe rice that held me back. On the roadside, patches of dry grass and straw were faintly visible, basking in the early sunlight. Mud lingered on the edges of green lotus leaves, and flowers bloomed shyly beside butterflies. Everything seemed to rise up together with a familiar, rustic scent, far different from the smell of asphalt and city vehicles that had retreated behind. That moment made me miss the smell of my motherland, as familiar as the sweet scent of milk that soothed my growing soul. And I felt like I was standing under the sky of my homeland, all the initial strangeness gradually disappeared. Only a gentle, peaceful feeling remained, like a cool stream of water flowing through my heart.

Sometimes my feet want to return and run among the fields, gently stepping on the smooth mud. Running to the winding village dike, standing on the riverbank, I deeply inhale the nostalgic smell of the fields. I want to wrap up the scent of the harvest season in the pearl of heaven, the scent of blue smoke fluttering on the reeds, the scent of ripe fruit in the riverside garden, to lighten the many urban dreams. In the distance, a desire to return and lie down under the old bamboo grove flashes, to be a shepherd boy passionately turning the pages of a new book, the scent of clean paper and ink mixed with the scent of grass and trees.

“Sometimes I suddenly remember a strange laugh/ A sad folk song with grapefruit and blackberry flowers/ A dry mud stain on a stone surface/ No one to say goodbye to/ I also remember a train whistle” . Those simple verses by poet Tran Vang Sao, in “A poem of a patriot” suddenly resonate in my mind. The deep nostalgia needs no explanation, it comes from small things. It is as if there is a miracle that makes people no longer feel lonely, and their hearts are more passionate about life, about people, opening the doors of the soul for the light of the source to shine.

In me, there is nothing richer than the memory of windy rivers, fragrant fields, and the figure of my mother working hard all year round. Nothing urges me to return like my mother's eyes red with the sunset every time she sees me off. Nothing makes me feel more empowered than waking up early in the morning in my mother's house, amidst the pure scent of wood smoke and the sound of birds singing outside the open window. I grew up amidst the fresh air of the countryside, and realized that for months and years the scent of the countryside was woven into every fold of my mother's shirt, her hair, and the brim of her conical hat. My mother's sweat fell down to help each seed sprout, the seeds deep in the warm soil, including the seeds of conscience, the seeds of kindness in each beloved child.

And so, the scent of the countryside in my heart is always imbued with the scent of my mother's sweat, the scent of the hard work that shaped me, wafting into the folk song of mustard flowers, eggplants, areca leaves and straw stalks. Even though I anchor myself among the lofty buildings and the deep shadows of the city, my soul is still a rustic soul, speaking with a hometown accent that I miss and miss. And deep in every inch of my heart is the scent of fields, straw, and alluvial soil.

Source: https://baolamdong.vn/van-hoa-nghe-thuat/202503/ve-thuong-huong-dong-co-noi-eb6463a/