“Do not step on the grass,” my father said as I carefully followed him down the narrow rice terraces. I looked below and saw how far down the next rice paddy was. I balanced myself and walked slowly.

Papa’s boots were making huge footmarks in the muddy trail and as I stepped on them, I noticed how small my feet were. I was seven years old. Many colorful birds flew in the air and I couldn’t help but stare.

“Look at where you’re stepping,” he reminded. It was summer and the rice terraces were exceptionally breathtaking. The rice grains had just turned golden and with the sun shining down, the whole valley looked like King Midas’s kingdom.

Papa picked two small stalks of wheat and gave one to me. While walking, we peeled off the unripe husk and saved the greenish grains in our hands. When it reached a handful we popped them in our mouths. They were soft and milky and tasted like egg pie without the crust. This kept me busy for a while.

When I got thirsty, we stopped around a bend where he got busy with some leaves that were high above my head. He arranged them like a staircase that led right into my mouth. Fresh water came trickling down. He told me this was how big rivers began.

The hike was long and tiring but papa kept me amused. He would mimic the sounds of animals, from crickets to wild boars. He would point to a place and tell an amusing memory from his childhood. I laughed when he told me how he would escape every morning from his daily chore of pounding rice and feeding the pigs. He was an obnoxious little school-boy who had countless misadventures.

When the sun reached its peak, the mud hardened and the path became rock-like. My feet started to hurt and I desperately looked at the grass on the side of the paddies. I remembered papa’s warning but my aching feet itched for the softness of the grass. I waited until he wasn’t looking and in slow motion inched my foot into the grass and stepped on it.

Half a second later I felt myself falling… then a loud thud. I opened my eyes and saw papa’s face six feet above me. There I was sprawled on the rice paddy far below the path we were walking.

Papa shook his head and laughed. Minutes later, a muddy-me was up on his shoulders. For the rest of the hike, he carried me on top with my feet swinging away.

It was becoming dark when I felt papa slowing down. He placed me on my feet and pointed at something. I squinted and focused my little eyes. Just a few feet down the trail was the top of my lola’s grass-house.

We have reached home.