Thương nhớ thị thơm

The picture of persimmons on my old friend's Facebook page a few days ago, where she sells things online in Vietnam, stirred up a deep longing in me for my homeland, for the autumn in Hanoi. Along with that came a yearning to hold a ripe, golden persimmon in my hand, press it against my cheek, close my eyes, inhale its enchanting fragrance, and imagine a beautiful girl in a pink bodice stepping out… just like when I was a child.

It's been almost a decade since I last saw persimmons, since I started living abroad, because every time I returned home, it was outside of their ripening season. My plans to return home this year have been postponed indefinitely due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Already missing my parents, my friends, the strolls through the Old Quarter, or the leisurely walks by West Lake breathing in the autumn air, the picture of persimmons that my friend posted to sell evoked a feeling of their fragrance, transporting me back to those early autumn days several decades ago.

Back then, around this time, the neighbor girl's face would puff up like a toasted rice cracker, becoming unusually bossy. We were also different from usual, indulging her like a spoiled child, simply because her house had a persimmon tree. If she was happy, she'd pick one for each of us; if she wasn't happy, she wouldn't sell it to us even if we had money. With the persimmons, we'd carefully place them in the pretty little mesh bag my sister knitted for us, carrying it everywhere we went, cherishing it like a baby, because each of us thought there was a tiny Cinderella inside. At home, I'd place the persimmon on top of a book on my study desk, and at night I'd put it right by my bedside, even though my grandmother kept telling me not to, saying it wasn't good for children's sleep.

I tried to restrain myself from touching the persimmon too much, afraid it would bruise, become ugly, and lose its fragrance, but I kept bringing it to my nose to inhale its scent. And then, as the days passed, the fragrance, initially sweet and mild, gradually became heavier, and the bright yellow skin darkened. I reluctantly squeezed and ate the persimmon, then took out the seed and patiently ground away the brown outer shell. That pristine white seed, with just a toothpick inserted into the embryo, could become an ice cream cone, enough to play with for another day…

My friends not only sucked on this "ice cream" but also chewed it noisily. The hunger of that time made the children crave the rich flavor of this hard, tasteless thing, like a persimmon seed; they chewed it so much that it ruined their molars later on.

As adults, we no longer eat persimmons, but we still crave them, and whenever we have the chance, we still have to "bring home" a few, cherishing them as if to evoke memories of our childhood that has long since faded into the past…

Those kids from back then are now in their forties. Living abroad, observing the lives of my old friends on Facebook, I sometimes laugh to see them still bickering, begging, and fighting over every single persimmon, then giving instructions, asking for favors, and even threatening each other… all to get a share on the next trip.

My friend said that in Vietnam, persimmons are rarer than before, sometimes as hard to find as dragon's liver; you have to search all over the market and stalls just to find a few misshapen ones. Sometimes even tiny persimmons sell for tens of thousands of dong, but that subtle, pure fragrance that soothes the soul is priceless to many, so just being able to buy one is like striking gold.

If asked which fruit evokes the most nostalgia, haunting memories, and intense emotions and dreams, most Vietnamese people, at least those born before the 8s, would likely choose the persimmon. The persimmon has never truly been a fruit tree, nor has its fruit been considered a food item in the traditional sense, yet people still yearn for it, driven by sentiment and the soul. In a foreign land, the image of the persimmon and the childhood memories associated with it remind me of my longing for home, a longing for something intangible yet imbued with the warmth of the Vietnamese spirit and soul…

Whenever acquaintances or friends from Vietnam are about to visit the country where I live, they often ask if I need anything they can bring over. If someone were here right now, I would only wish they could bring me a few persimmons. That's all.

* What do you think about this? Please share your opinions and feelings in the comment box below.