The Smell of Dad's Raincoat

There are scents that pass through one's life and then fade away, but there are also scents that quietly linger, tucked deep within a realm of memory. For me, it is not the scent of early-season milk flowers, nor the aroma of fresh green sticky rice, nor the fragrance of the dishes Mom cooked. It is the smell of the old raincoat Dad always wore in the rain. A pungent smell of worn plastic, of rainwater, of sweat, and of the hardships that only when I grew up did I come to understand.

The familiar smell of childhood

As a child, I was very afraid of morning rains. The rain often came unexpectedly, just as Mom had kindled the stove, while I was struggling to button up my uniform. Out in the yard, rainwater pattered on the tin roof, flowing into streams through the cracks between the bricks. The dirt road leading to school, already bumpy, turned into a muddy mess whenever it rained. I stood tucked beside the door, watching the dreary gray sky, secretly wishing I could stay home from school that day.

But Dad never thought that way.

“Grab your backpack, Dad will take you to school!”!

Dad's voice drifted in from the porch, mingling with the sound of pouring rain. Dad was already standing beside the old bicycle, holding an army-green raincoat, faded white in some places from sun and wind. When Dad bought that raincoat, I don't remember; I only knew it had accompanied Dad through so many rainy seasons, through mornings leaving for work before dawn, through afternoons returning when the village road was already lit.

Dad had a habit: rain or shine, the raincoat was always folded squarely and tied neatly behind the bicycle seat. On days he returned from work in the rain, Dad would shake it dry, hang it on a nail driven into the corner of the porch, wait for it to dry, and then fold it neatly again. Once, I asked why he didn't buy a new one, and Dad just smiled: “As long as it still keeps the rain off, keep using it, child.”

Back then, I didn't understand why Dad was so thrifty. I only saw that Dad's raincoat was both old and had an unpleasant smell. Every time I sat behind him on the bike, covered from head to toe by the flap of the coat Dad pulled over, I would grimace at that pungent smell. The smell of damp plastic from long ago, the smell of fabric soaked in sweat, the smell of wet dirt rising from the muddy road. Sometimes I even pouted, trying to stick my head out to breathe a little air. Dad turned around, his voice stern yet gentle: “Sit close, you'll get completely soaked!”. And so, I nestled behind Dad's back again.

Under the oversized raincoat, my world suddenly shrank. Ahead was my father's lean back, above was the raincoat stretching taut with each gust of wind, and below was the sound of wheels rolling through puddles. I couldn't see the road, only hearing the rain pattering right above my head and my father's heavy breathing each time he pedaled uphill. Occasionally, a strong gust of wind would whip past, lifting the flap of the coat and letting freezing rainwater touch my feet. Father would hurriedly pull the coat down, holding the handlebars with one hand while shielding me with the other.

There were mornings with heavy rain when the road was flooded halfway up the wheels. Father had to dismount and push the bicycle through deep patches of mud. Rainwater streamed down his face, soaking his shoulders, yet he still turned back to ask: “Are you cold?”. I shook my head. In truth, I wasn't very cold at all. Because the widest, most sheltered part of the raincoat, Father had reserved to shield me.

Father worked tirelessly from morning till evening. On days of persistent rain, he still rode his bicycle to work, the faded raincoat billowing in the wind like a small sail. Coming home in the late afternoon, with the wheels caked in mud, his hands were freezing cold. Father would prop the bicycle under the eaves, take off the raincoat, shake it vigorously a few times, and hang it on the familiar nail. All the hardships from out on the road seemed to be left behind by Father in that corner under the eaves, before stepping into the house to ask about my studies.

Forever lingering in tender remembrance

Then I grew up. The dirt roads of the past were gradually paved with asphalt. The old bicycle was replaced by a motorbike. I no longer sat behind my father every morning on the way to school, nor did I need anyone to remind me to bring a raincoat when a thunderstorm was brewing. I had new raincoats—lighter, nicer, and smelling of fresh plastic. Life simply swept me along through countless seasons of sun and rain, through all the bustles of adulthood.

One rainy afternoon, I returned home and happened to see the old raincoat hanging in the corner under the eaves. The nail from years ago was still there. The coat had grown more frayed, the creases etched deeply, and the blue color was almost entirely faded. I reached out to touch it, then instinctively leaned down to find that familiar scent of childhood once more. In just a fleeting moment, I felt as if I were small again, seeing the muddy village road and my father's legs tirelessly pedaling through the rain. And seeing a child sitting behind their father, carefree under the wide raincoat, never knowing just how wet and cold the person in front was.

Now, whenever I come across a father taking his child to school in the rain, I often watch them a little longer. Looking at the child nestled behind their father's back, looking at the father's hand trying to pull the flap of the coat to cover his child, my heart swells with a tender remembrance.

People often recall childhood through the chirping of cicadas in summer, the scent of fresh straw, or kitchen smoke on winter evenings. But my childhood is kept safe in the scent of my father's raincoat. A scent that cannot be bought anywhere, because within it are all the years Father quietly endured the wind and rain to give me peaceful days.

And I suddenly realized, throughout all those years, the raincoat had never been large enough to cover both of us. It was just that Dad always chose the wet side for himself.

HAN DA NGUYET