Sunlit Days: Childhood in the Highlands

I remember I was only about seven years old that year. There were many children in my village, and about four or five of them were around my age. We often met under the blazing midday sun, gathering to climb the hillside near our homes. That hill became our meeting place, the stage for all our games and endless adventures. First, a game of tag always kicked off our playtime. There were five of us, so we split into two teams: me, Sang, Vu, Trung, and Hien. Little Hien was the youngest and often cried, so we usually made her the referee — we were afraid she’d fall while running and burst into tears. The rule was simple: everyone started from the same spot, but one team would run first while the other had to wait their turn to give chase. I was always on the same team as Trung — partly because we were the same age, and partly because he liked playing with me. Every time, he’d assign the role of a little captain: "Na, you chase Sang — he’s slower. I’ll go after Vu," he’d say confidently. The sun was higher, and the sound of dry grass crackled beneath our bare feet. The hill wasn’t steep, but running uphill still made our hearts race and our legs burn. Trung was ahead of me, quick and determined, his eyes locked on Vũ — even though Vũ had already disappeared behind a bush somewhere farther up. I turned my focus to Sang. He was panting heavily, glancing back every few steps. His shirt clung to his back with sweat, and his arms flailed as he tried to speed up. I suddenly burst out laughing. It wasn’t a mean laugh — just the kind of laugh that only comes when you’re running wild under the summer sun, chasing your friends and feeling like nothing else in the world mattered. “I see you, Sang!” I shouted, more for fun than to scare him. From somewhere behind a big tree, Vũ called out, “You’ll never catch me!” His voice echoed off the hill like a song. This was how our afternoons went — running, laughing, shouting, collapsing in the tall grass when we were too tired to move. That hillside wasn’t just a place to play; it was our secret world. After all the running, we finally found a patch of soft, green grass. It was the perfect resting spot — hidden in the shade of a few old trees, with the scent of wildflowers drifting in the breeze. We dropped to the ground, panting and sweating, our hair sticking to our foreheads. No one said anything for a while — we just lay there, staring at the clouds drifting lazily across the sky. Then, as always, someone broke the silence. Trung said: “Do you think our teacher is actually a nice person? "Because she always pays attention to me,” Trung asked, grinning. That made everyone laugh. From there, the conversation wandered — from the latest trouble someone got into at school, to what we wanted to be when we grew up. Sáng said he wanted to become a pilot. Vũ shouted that he’d rather be a superhero. Hien, sitting cross-legged with a blade of grass in her mouth, whispered that she just never wanted to grow up — because she knew her parents had so many responsibilities. I didn’t know what I wanted yet. But lying there on the hillside, with my friends beside me, the sun above us, and the whole summer ahead, all I wished was for that moment to be frozen in time. We rested and chatted until the sun began to dip behind the hills. It was time to head home. The sky turned a soft orange, then pink, as shadows started to stretch across the hillside. The warmth of the sun slowly gave way to a gentle evening breeze. We still talked and laughed as we walked back. Even though our legs were tired, and our stomachs were growling with hunger, our spirits remained light. Along the path, we absentmindedly reached out to pick wildflowers — tiny yellow blooms, purple sim flowers, and white daisies that swayed in the wind. Some we tucked behind our ears, others we held gently in our hands, as if trying to hold on to the last magic of the day. The sun was almost gone by the time we reached the foot of the slope. Smoke curled up from kitchen fires. Somewhere in the distance, our mothers were waiting to call us home for dinner. None of us really wanted to say goodbye. But we knew we’d be back the next day — same hill, same games, same laughter. And so we parted ways at the fork in the road, each of us holding a handful of wildflowers and that was the end of a perfect summer's afternoon.