(QBĐT) - I strolled through the village fields in January, a gentle green color filling my eyes. The rice paddies, lush and vibrant, clothed the homeland in a new, expansive garment of hope. The verdant river flowed peacefully, as if singing lullabies of the land, spreading far and wide amidst the mist. The spring breeze blew gently through the wildflowers, lingering with a faint fragrance that stirred my heart. Amidst the expansive sky of my homeland, a few white clouds drifted slowly, softly, like a newly written poem by the wondrous hand of spring.
A small garden, lush with rows of beans, stretches out in the soft, silken sunlight. "December is the month for planting sweet potatoes. January for planting beans, February for planting eggplant." Through these resting periods, each crop follows the next in the endless rotation of time's windmill. The plants and fruits grow, nurtured by the rich alluvial soil and the nourishing essence of their homeland, along with the kind hearts of those who cultivate and care for them from dawn till dusk.
I remember those springs long ago, when my mother planted mung beans and peanuts in the plot of land in front of our house. She sowed the seeds in neat rows, then covered them with a layer of damp straw. Her garden was next to the old well, and twice a day, morning and evening, she would carry buckets of water to water the green bean plants. Through her careful tending and the silent anticipation she poured into each plot of land, around the beginning of summer, under the warm sunshine of the countryside, our whole family would harvest the beans. My mother would discard the shriveled and damaged beans, then diligently sift and wash away the dirt clinging to the plump, round beans.
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My mother would often set aside a small amount to give to relatives and neighbors, carefully packaged with the simple, heartfelt affection of the countryside. A portion was used to boil or make sweet soup for her young children who waited patiently. The rest she spread out in the yard to dry in the sun for several cycles, then packed into sacks to use for making candy, sticky rice, porridge, or to press peanut oil. During the rainy season, sometimes she would roast peanuts, grind them, mix with salt and sugar, and eat them with hot rice. The familiar sweet and savory taste lingered amidst the myriad flavors of life. All this simplicity and genuineness helped my mother raise my siblings and me, weaving deep bonds of love and affection into our hearts.
In January, hearts are filled with anticipation for the new harvest, and everyone heading to the fields sparkles with hopes for favorable weather and a bountiful harvest. Flocks of birds chirp and call to each other as they gather among the fruit-laden trees, their enchanting songs like strings of beads, circling around the sun-drenched foliage. Amidst the vibrant green of January, the blossoms of the countryside bloom, imbued with the essence of spring. Beside someone's house, the apricot blossoms blanket the sky, their purple hues resembling ink stains on white clouds. Areca and pomelo blossoms fall from the doorstep, their fragrance lingering in dreams, clinging to the rosy lips and flowing hair of a young woman under the full moon. In the garden, swarms of bees and butterflies flutter around the mustard and gourd flowers, dyeing the shores of longing yellow, lingering in a pensive gaze.
January still carries the lingering feeling of parting, as it's time for children to turn their backs and leave their hometowns for the city. Having passed through this season of reunion, those who grew up beside bamboo groves and rice paddies are reminded to preserve their family traditions intact, so that the flame of their roots continues to burn brightly, illuminating every path of love. As the late musician Trinh Cong Son once wrote: "When you have a homeland to return to, or to return to occasionally, you have so much happiness. There you have a river, a mountain, and you find again friends from your youth, whose hair is now streaked with gray." A river, a mountain, or people from bygone eras—all seem to call our footsteps back to find refuge within the cradle of gratitude and deep affection.
And January forever imprints the image of a mother bidding farewell to her child amidst the lingering drizzle, tears of sorrow blurring her eyes, the embrace before parting filled with a heartfelt promise to return…
Tran Van Thien
Source: https://www.baoquangbinh.vn/van-hoa/202502/thang-gieng-que-2224431/
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