(QBĐT) - I strolled out to the village fields in January, a peaceful green color filled my eyes. The young green rice fields covered the homeland with a new, vast coat of hope. The vast green river branches flowed gently, as if singing a lullaby of the homeland amidst the mist. The spring breeze blew endlessly through the wild flower clusters, lingering a lingering scent in my heart. In the vast sky of the homeland, a few white clouds drifted slowly and gently like a new poem written by the magical hands of spring.
Someone’s garden is lush with bean fields, stretching out in the thin, silken sunlight. “December is the month to plant potatoes. January is the month to plant beans, February is the month to plant eggplants.” After the days of the land resting, each crop continues to follow the other in the endless rotation of the pinwheel of time. The fruits and trees continue to grow from the rich alluvial soil, the nutrients of the homeland, and the fragrant hearts of many people who cultivate and care for them day and night.
I remember the old springs when my mother also planted green beans and peanuts in the land in front of the house. She sowed the bean seeds in neat rows, then covered them with a layer of moist straw. Her garden was next to the old well, and every day, morning and evening, she had to carry buckets of water to water the bean garden until it grew green. Through her careful hands and the anticipation she silently put into each plot of land, around the beginning of summer, in the midst of the radiant sunshine pouring down on the countryside, my whole family would harvest the beans. My mother would remove all the broken and spoiled beans, then sit down and diligently sift and wash away all the dirt and dust that remained on the plump, round beans.
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Mother often saved some to give to relatives and neighbors, wrapping it with the simple affection of the countryside people. A portion was divided to boil or cook sweet soup for the children who were still waiting. The rest was spread out in the yard to dry in the sun, then put into bags to save for candy, sticky rice, porridge, or she would press peanut oil. When the rainy season came, there were days when mother would roast the peanuts, pound them, mix them with salt and sugar and eat them with hot rice. The familiar sweet taste still lingers among the flavors of the world. Such simplicity and honesty helped mother raise my siblings and me, in our souls tightly woven with deep affection.
In January, people's hearts are filled with excitement to welcome the new harvest, everyone's eyes in the fields are sparkling with the hope of favorable weather, a warm and prosperous harvest. Flocks of wild birds call each other back to the fruit-laden trees, singing their enchanting songs like strings of beads, circling around the leaves swaying in the sunlight. Appearing amidst the abundant green of the first and second months are the colors of the countryside flowers imbued with spring. The alleys of someone's house are covered with the shade of xoan flowers, the whole countryside sky is purple like ink stains on white clouds. Areca and grapefruit flowers in front of the porch fall into dreams, lingering with the scent of the countryside melting on the red lips, the hair falling to the shoulders of a full moon girl. In the garden, swarms of bees and butterflies flutter around the mustard and squash flowers, dyeing both banks of longing yellow, lingering with a melancholy gaze.
January is still filled with many feelings of separation, when the time comes for children to leave their hometowns and head to the city. After the reunion season, children who grew up under bamboo roots and straw banks remind themselves to preserve their family traditions, so that the fire of their roots can still burn and illuminate every path of love. As the late musician Trinh once wrote: “When you have a country to return to or to return to occasionally, you are still very happy. There you have a river, a mountain, and you find friends who once had green hair but now have gray hair.” A river, a mountain, or people from a thousand years ago, all seem to call our footsteps to return to rest in the cradle of gratitude, heavy with deep love.
And January still imprints the image of a mother seeing her child off in the misty rain, tears of love brimming in the corners of her eyes, the embrace before parting sobbing a promise to return...
Tran Van Thien
Source: https://www.baoquangbinh.vn/van-hoa/202502/thang-gieng-que-2224431/
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