In the summer of 2020, Australia suffered devastating bushfires. The weather was dry, and the oil-rich foliage of many plants caught fire easily. After days of relentless heat, rain arrived unexpectedly one evening. It poured through the fierce golden sunlight and the forty-two-degree heat. Steam rose from the earth, carrying a lovely scent into the air.
Delighted, I threw open the door and ran into the garden. I could smell the earth stirring, the fresh scent of plants welcoming the rain. Even the rosemary branches seemed to rejoice. I called to my daughter, “Nâu, come quickly and smell the earth! Hurry! Can you see the steam rising from the ground? Look!”
Nâu came over and rested her chin on my shoulder. “Why do you love this smell so much, Mum?”
“Because it reminds me of being little. The summers were so hot, and all the children in our neighbourhood would wish for rain so we could play in it… I still remember the smell of the earth then. But our garden smells even better now. There’s rosemary, thyme, mint leaves. And those flowering bushes over there…”
“I can smell cucumber too,” Nâu said. We stood with our arms around each other, watching the rain, swaying gently as though to a lullaby. Everything felt peaceful.
(Excerpt from Hành trình những mùi hương by Huỳnh Hải Yến, p. 226. Translated from Vietnamese.)