Late afternoon through the village

The children in the village were just waiting for that moment, all of them were dark-skinned and were busy running around in the yard, chattering away as they headed home. The older sister seemed to understand and kept urging her two younger siblings to bathe and clean themselves, then quickly pulled out some firewood to start a fire to cook dinner.

Mom had told her to just watch the sun set and light the stove to help her cook rice. Feeling sorry for her parents who worked hard in the fields, her older sister had learned to help her cook rice since she was ten years old. Now, around twelve or thirteen years old, her older sister was already very skilled at cooking rice. As soon as the fire caught, the smoke spread quickly in the wind, swirling around the roof of the stilt house. Her older sister hurriedly washed the rice and put it on the stove to cook. In no time, the pot of rice was boiling, the aroma of new rice spread throughout the space.

Smelling the fragrant smell of new rice, as if by default, the youngest brother with clear eyes knew that his parents were about to return, trotting out to sit on the steps of the stilt house, his eyes intently looking into the distance. Keeping the rice pot warm to cook evenly, his older sister also came out to sit with him on the steps, waiting. The youngest brother, in his longing every afternoon, kept chattering, not knowing that in his mother's basket there were ripe wild fruits. They waited from the time the sun had just set a little bit until it completely set behind the mountain range next to the village. On the road through the village, the shadows of people silently drifted by.

In the fading sunset, the dark brown stilt houses stand out even more in the vast green fields of the village, as if telling many stories of the past and present. And each story is the same, fragrant and familiar. From the children, to their parents and many other villagers, they have grown up from the rice grains, corn, from the foods and flavors that the fields, the mountains and forests, and this beloved village have given them.

The afternoon was getting later, the mountain village was getting darker indigo. At that time, the mist from the cliffs was gradually spreading with the wind, thinner than smoke, making the late afternoon atmosphere in the village even more hazy. The children were still sitting on the steps. They were attentively looking at the village road in the distance. All of them cheered happily when suddenly at the beginning of the village road appeared two figures behind a pair of oxen. The oxen obediently lowered their heads and walked slowly, on the cart behind were not only vegetables for dinner, but also a bunch of ripe yellow bananas and several bags of early-picked corn.

That scene made the late afternoon passing through the village come alive. The children were no longer nervous, no longer had the fluttering in their eyes. The youngest child no longer had to whine, his mother brought back ripe wild fruits. The older sister no longer had to worry about not having her favorite dish for dinner, and the younger child sulking and never finishing his bowl of rice.

The couple walked quickly. Without saying anything, they looked towards the stilt house facing the village fields in front, their faces joyful and bright. All the fatigue and hard work of the day seemed to have disappeared. The sisters were all excited. They divided the ripe bananas equally. The older sister took a bunch of vegetables from her mother's basket to wash, and boiled them later. Add some stream fish that her father caught while working in the fields, and the whole family would have dinner. The meal had few dishes, but the delicious taste was still retained in the joy and anticipation.

Mother scooped up a bowl of new rice with the full flavor of the land, father served the child fish stewed with banana flowers, the sisters and mother and father gathered around the fire right at the end of the house. The fire flickered, occasionally casting a pink light on the hard-working faces of mother and father, on the innocent faces with rosy cheeks, winter or summer, of the children. Parents told stories about growing ginseng on the fields, selling leaves and tubers, earning tens of millions of dong. Stories about several acres of cold-weather coffee this year, not knowing if they would have a good harvest or a good price. Stories about the children, no matter what, having to take care of their studies to the end. Letters do not fill the stomach immediately, but they always give rice more flowers, and coffee trees more seeds.

Late afternoons passed by in the village like that. Passed by peacefully in the scent of mountains, forests, fields, and trees. Passed by peacefully in the sound of roosters crowing, mixed with the laughter and anticipation of children. Passed by lovingly in the acrid smell of smoke drifting in the wind, lingering on the roofs of stilt houses, and endless stories as the night gradually fell.

The stories were endless, entwined, intertwined like the dew drops outside gently falling on the stilt house roof, gradually fading with the years. Listening to their parents telling stories, the siblings listened attentively. The older sister occasionally wondered about this and that, and even told about the two younger brothers' disobedience. The dinner lasted long, and the youngest brother fell asleep innocently in his mother's arms. In his dream, he seemed to see his father's shirt filled with the scent of ripe rice, and his mother's basket filled with the sweet, ripe taste of wild fruits.

According to NGUYEN PHUC (baokontum)