The fields of my childhood

The rice field was our whole world back then. There was a gurgling ditch where schools of perch often hid under the slippery seaweed. The children rolled up their pants, cheering and running along the ditch looking for crab holes and catching fish. Some of them dipped both hands into the water, emerged with a handful of black mud, their faces beaming with joy because they had found a fat perch.

Photo: TK

On the other side was a large lawn where groups of children gathered to play the game of dragon and snake up to the clouds. The leader shouted loudly: “Dragon and snake up to the clouds/There is a núc nác tree, there is a house to check the troops/Ask if the doctor is home?” The children ran and giggled, their little feet covered in mud. Occasionally, one of them would fall down on the grass, then immediately jump up, cheerful as if he had never known what pain was.

Far away on the high mound, kites were flying high in the wind, singing a clear sound in the air. With each strong gust of wind, the kites soared high into the air, followed by the excited cheers of the children. Some fell down on the edge of the field because they were busy holding the kite's string, the whole group burst into laughter.

When the sunset stretched across the water, the children slowly returned. The smell of straw wafted in the wind. The clear voices of mothers calling their children echoed from the village entrance. As we walked, we grinned and told each other about the afternoon's exploits: Who caught the most fish, who ran the fastest, who flew the kite the highest. Those simple joys crept into our souls like the last rays of sunlight, gentle yet profound. We returned home, the sound of the bucket pouring water all over our muddy bodies. Some even jumped into the pond to take a quick bath and just rinsed off with the pool water. So in our childhood, all of our skin and flesh smelled of the burning sun, the pungent smell of straw and grass. Yet every time we returned from somewhere, the dogs would detect our owner's scent from afar and jump up to greet us. That was the smell of our homeland in the time of straw.

Now, whenever I stand before the countryside fields, I still seem to hear the echoes of my childhood. There are bare feet, muddy hands and clear smiles that never fade. That field will forever be the sky of my childhood - pure, bustling and full of love.

DUONG MY ANH

Source: https://baokhanhhoa.vn/van-hoa/sang-tac/202504/canh-dong-tuoi-tho-toi-f4d03cf/