(Not mine)

She often showed me how to play with leaves. Locusts, sparrows, and centipedes tied with coconut leaves. Lanterns made of ornamental areca leaves. Or banana leaves, tear them evenly then turn them over and weave them. Oh, she also showed me how to make a buffalo head with mango leaves, make a basket to pick flowers, and catch butterflies with nipa palm leaves...

Her leaves, were once more magical than elixir when I was a child. Later, living alone in the city, every time I had a cold, I bought a few inhalation pills at the pharmacy. Boil a pot of water and put the solution in the pill into the pot. The hot steam also smells like lemongrass, grapefruit leaves, and lemon leaves. It also makes me sweat, clears my nose and feels refreshed, then that's it, I still have to take the medicine. , still have to stay at home for two or three days to get up. On days like that, I crave to be near her, to whine, to sniffle, then she will pity me so much that she will quickly go to the back of the house, pick seven or eight types of leaves and cook a steaming pot for me. I often declared that I was cured after getting out of the blanket, sweating profusely, and sitting with my back turned so that she could turn over her shirt and wipe the sweat all over my body. Sometimes I think, is it because of my grandmother's sweat that the pot of herbal leaves in the past helped me quickly recover from my illness? And now, it's so difficult to find someone to sweat for me, so I'm always sick, so I keep taking medicine.

Her leaves are fragrant. Sweet fragrance throughout my childhood journey. A wistful fragrance until now and a gentle fragrance for tomorrow. Her leaves, still fragrant on another eternal journey, the journey my grandfather returned to dust.

I remember that day, as if she knew he would pass away, she sent my brother-in-law out to pick Eucalyptus cajuput leaves. My brother rowed a boat along the Vam Co River, picked a boat full of those fragrant leaves, brought them back to her in three big bags, and she emptied them all out to dry in her front yard. Three afternoons in a row, when the sun was out, she gathered them together on a large cushion. She worked silently, not telling her grandchildren, but the way she sat gathering leaves looked so sad. At that time I was still young, I didn't know what she was thinking in her heart, nor did I know that I was about to lose a very close relative. I don't know what she does to dry leaves, but her meticulousness, dedication and melancholy make me hesitate to ask.

In those days, my house smelled of eucalyptus and everyone was confused and absent-minded, especially my father and grandmother. A few days later, my grandfather left. People used all those leaves to line the bottom of the trunk, then covered it with a white cloth... My grandfather lay on it, it must have been very comfortable. Only then did I know what my grandmother wished for him on his profound journey. I believe he smelled the fragrant cajuput scent, the fragrant cajuput scent of happiness, the happiness of being cared for so attentively by his partner. Even when he closed his eyes and let go of everything.

That's it, my childhood was fragrant and brilliant with her and with the divine leaves. Miraculous leaves to this day. Every time I hold a Bodhi leaf to look up at the sun, I feel like I'm small again, as tiny as a bean, lying obediently in her arms, waiting for the day to sprout and sprout green leaves. Have you ever held a leaf and looked at it closely, seeing the eternal blue sky, seeing the passion of each withered leaf cell, or is it just me, and then for a long time, I find myself wandering around in the middle of the road leaf vein.

Credit: Trưng Gia Hoà (Vietnamese)

[Truong Gia Hoa was born in 1975, graduated from the Faculty of Literature and Journalism, Ho Chi Minh City University of Social Sciences and Humanities.

Her original hometown is Trang Bang (Tay Ninh), but like Saigon immigrants, Truong Gia Hoa sees this land as her second homeland, a land not only for making a living but also a place of family and home. Writing is her favorite job. Saigon appears in the female author's writing with feminine words, with stories about family life, housework, cooking, raising children, and daily work.]