Spring Smoke

In the morning, when I opened my eyes, I heard my grandmother grumbling. It was spring, but the winter cold seemed to linger, cold to the point of being biting. She laboriously carried each dry piece of firewood, arranged it neatly in a long row, and placed it on the alley wall, waiting for the sun to dry. When she finished, she took a hoe and a sickle to prepare to weed the grass in front of the alley, waiting for Tet. Two figures, one old and one young, were busy with the hoe and the sickle, talking about nameless stories. At the end of the day, they piled the grass into a pile, added some dry straw, and started to burn it. The wisps of smoke fluttered into the air as if flying to a virtual land, touching the sweetly spreading memories in me.

I told her that if the weather was dry and sunny, the fire would burn strongly, and the smoke would be more graceful, not sluggish like now. She smiled toothlessly, that was natural, reminding me of the distant days when I was a seven-year-old boy. At the end of the year, when she burned the trash, I would always ask her to bury some potatoes or cassava until they were cooked to eat. Strangely, when she reminded me, I felt like a child again. I could even remember the taste of roasted potatoes, the burnt taste of the outer skin, the fragrant crumbly inside, mixed with the smell of smoke. I remember that she always indulged me, even though there were times when there wasn't enough charcoal to burn the trash, so she had to add some firewood.

These days, Dad is always busy. First, he rearranges and fixes the storage room for things, firewood, and torches. Dad stretches a canvas to prevent rain or shine, and arranges some bricks firmly to cook banh chung in a few days. For my family, Tet can lack many things, but it is absolutely impossible without banh chung. While working, Dad laughs and jokes, without banh chung, there is no Tet anymore. The homemade wood stove that I often go to, Dad assigned the task of watching the cake. Dad showed me how to make the fire warm by first adding wood chips, then wood chips, and finally, surrounding it with rice husks. On the cold days at the end of the year, I sit next to the pot of banh chung, feeling more clearly the fire in front of me and the smell of smoke lingering around me. Everything is pleasant like a familiar scent, not as unpleasant as someone imagined. The pungent smell of grass mixed with dried corn. The smell of longan wood is light. And the fragrant smell of banana leaves wafting from the pot. I took a deep breath, feeling spring right next to me, my heart filled with happiness.

This year is a year of strange weather changes. The rain keeps on drizzling and never stops. Perhaps this is also the last rain of the lunar year. The sound of loudspeakers is loud throughout the big and small streets. I lightly put on a thin raincoat, brought a broom and a hoe to clean up with everyone. It is a common tradition of the whole village before the upcoming Tet holiday. The rain is drizzling, the cold wind blows on the pale face but cannot stop the youthful energy and excitement of everyone. We talk to each other, discuss the upcoming spring beside the gentle pink smoke. It is the love of the village, the community connection, the chance to meet again only once a year.

The spring smoke lingers in my mind with so many memories. I grew up with memories, matured with simple things, so my heart always holds a dream of missing the smoke of my hometown…