Top 10 Best Essays on the Mid-Autumn Festival

In 1986, when I was in elementary school, I vividly remember the piece 'Independence Mid-Autumn' by Thép Mới, which had the following passage: 'Tonight, I stand guard at the border, the moon is bright and the mountain winds are vast, making me feel nostalgic for the Mid-Autumn Festival and think of the children. The moon tonight shines down on Vietnam, your beloved independent country. The bright autumn moon lights up the city, villages, and forests, all the places dear to you...' Back then, I remember it was 'the border' and not 'the camp' as the children learn today. Although I didn't fully understand, the smooth, flowing words lingered in my mind and touched the hearts of many young souls. I read it over and over, memorizing it without even realizing. For me, the Mid-Autumn Festival has always been intertwined with the beautiful, poignant writing of my early years! Life was still full of hardships, but our generation experienced many beautiful and poetic Mid-Autumns. Those memories of the past always remain a sweet, flowing current in my heart. Back then, in the countryside, most of the parents were farmers, constantly struggling with poverty and hunger. The children didn't expect much from their parents and instead, found joy in their own way. We didn't need to wait for the full moon to enjoy the festive atmosphere—right from the beginning of the eighth lunar month, the joy of the Mid-Autumn Festival filled the air. In the morning, I went to school at Vinh Phu village school, a small, simple place with just a few classrooms. The voice of children reading aloud, especially the 'Independence Mid-Autumn,' stirred excitement in us all. After school, we would laugh and joke, playing in the village lanes under the shade of bamboo trees, the cool breeze in the air. In the afternoon, we would gather to make our lanterns, eagerly preparing for the upcoming festival! To make a five-pointed star lantern, I had to be meticulous, carefully crafting it over several afternoons. My village was known for basket weaving, so bamboo was always available. The hardest part was shaping the bamboo strips into smooth, even pieces and assembling the points to form the lantern. Then, I had to tie it securely to stand straight and balanced. The most difficult part was finding colored reflective paper to decorate it and empty milk cans to place candles inside. Even the candles were scarce, so I used the empty ink jar from Quế Lâm, filling it with oil, and secretly used the top part of a light bulb to make a makeshift candle. As the evening approached, even before the full moon, the village road would glow with the light of our homemade star lanterns. The village still had no electricity, so the moonlight blended with the lanterns’ colors, and the air was filled with the laughter of children, carrying our dreams into the night. The lanterns were often fragile, the oil leaking out, or they would catch fire, but we always tried again, full of excitement and anticipation. The making of the lion head lantern was something only the older children could do, and I had never attempted it myself. The highlight of the Mid-Autumn Festival for us children was receiving the moon cakes from the production team. Every year, on the afternoon of the full moon, the familiar bell would ring—not to call the adults to the fields, but to summon the children to the village square or barn to receive our treats. Though the gifts were simple and few, they brought immense joy to us, as they represented the sweetness of childhood and stayed with me throughout my life. The sweet taste of childhood, like a mung bean candy, has always been a warm memory that accompanies me through every season of life. Back then, there were no professional lion dance teams. My school, Hoa An 1, organized our own lion dance performances, practicing to entertain the villagers for the Mid-Autumn Festival. The biggest honor was to perform for three nights (from the 12th to the 15th day of the lunar month). We worked hard to prepare and rehearse, and if we received any donations, they would go towards the school fund. The oldest students took the lead, while the younger ones cheered them on. Although we didn’t have much, we still put on a lively performance. The village was so supportive, as we were all family, and everyone cared for each other. As for me and my friends, we would follow behind, cheering loudly, sometimes getting separated, sometimes getting wet in the rain, or covered in mud, but we never minded. I still remember the narrow village roads covered in straw and mud, the tall bamboo groves, and the rhythmic beating of the drums that accompanied the lion dance. The golden moonlight bathed everything in a soft, gentle glow. I couldn’t help but wonder if the Moon Lady and the Man in the Moon up there enjoyed the festival as much as the children on earth did. Times have changed, and each year’s Mid-Autumn Festival is more extravagant than the last. Children today have more to look forward to, and the joy is greater, but the feeling of excitement during the Mid-Autumn Festival has never changed. Though the festivals may differ, the childhood longing for the Mid-Autumn Festival remains the same. This year, however, the Mid-Autumn Festival felt very different. There were no lion dance drums, no cheers filling the streets. The pandemic is still with us, schools are closed, and the children celebrate at home with their families, and that in itself is a blessing. My heart goes out to the more than 1,500 children in Ho Chi Minh City who have lost their parents due to COVID-19. How will they navigate life, struggling amidst the busy world? It is heartwarming to hear that the chairman of the FPT Group, Trương Gia Bình, has committed to supporting 1,000 orphaned children and providing continuous education for them over the next 20 years. This news is a gift full of humanity, warming hearts and comforting the young, innocent souls. Although autumn is nearing its end, it still holds its gentle charm. The golden sun and the shimmering moon continue to shine, but the lively sounds of the festival are noticeably absent, leaving a quiet space in my memories. Suddenly, the words of Thép Mới come back to me: 'The moon is bright and the mountain wind is vast, making me feel nostalgic for the Mid-Autumn Festival, and think of the children.' I have walked through many Mid-Autumns filled with nostalgia, and I hope the pandemic ends soon so children can return to school, and the Mid-Autumn Festivals will always remain bright and complete in the hearts of children everywhere! Phan Huy Thùy

The late summer clings to the last sour fruits, their branches bending low as if beckoning. Reaching up to pluck the ripe tamarinds, it feels as though I’ve touched a forgotten piece of my childhood. In those days, we children, dark and scruffy, wandered the winding village lanes, often pausing beneath the old tamarind tree at the village’s edge. Every time we passed by, we craned our necks, hoping to find a few leftover tamarinds from the season’s end. The round tamarinds, golden like little suns, swayed in the breeze, teasing our taste buds. Gone were the days of waiting with shirts held out to catch the falling fruits; now we used bamboo poles with hooks to snag the tamarinds down. Before long, the small hands of children gathered the sought-after tamarinds, and we would take them home, wash them, peel off their skin, and slice them into rings to dip in chili salt. The tamarind’s crispy skin gave way to its tender, translucent flesh, revealing a dark seed inside. Once prepared, we would dive into the delicious snack, savoring its sour, salty, and spicy taste. This was the flavor of our childhood.

As autumn arrived, the crisp winds carried the sweet scent of ripening guavas, filling the air. The guava trees, their branches thin and fragile, supported the heavy fruit, which glistened in the golden autumn sunlight. Hidden among the leaves, the ripe guavas blended with the warm light, almost invisible to the hand reaching for them. From beneath the tree, we watched the greedy bulbuls fighting over the fruit, their wings fluttering and the sound of their departure echoing in the air. Quick as lightning, the children would scramble up the tree to pick the ripe fruit, starting with those the birds had pecked. Strangely, those touched by the birds always tasted sweeter and more fragrant. Holding the guava, peeling away its golden skin to reveal the pink, fragrant flesh, we inhaled deeply. The aroma filled our lungs, ran through our hair, and rested gently on our shoulders. When the lychees were gone, the ripe guavas in our homes became a simple pleasure of our childhood. Their fragrance filled the space, creating a comforting, peaceful atmosphere that made us feel as if our family was always near.

Autumn had also arrived on the Red River, which had finally calmed after the flood. The waters were now gentle and clear. In the afternoons, the children played and bathed in the river, their sunburned skin rough with the experience, before they reluctantly headed back to shore. The familiar paths leading home were lined with wild grasses, brushing against our skin, and the flowers that grew along the way created a sea of purple. The vast grasslands stretched far into the distance, reaching towards Bat Trang. Behind us, Mrs. Dung, the fisherwoman, balanced a basket of freshly caught fish on her hip as she hurried to sell them before the evening meal. The fresh shrimp and fish sold quickly, and occasionally, we would have crispy fried fish with garlic chili sauce, or shrimp sautéed with salt, served with boiled water spinach and tamarind. Some evenings, we would be lucky enough to have a sour soup made from river fish. I was tasked with roasting sour fruit to prepare the sour base for the soup, while my father handled the delicate fish, careful to avoid the sharp bones. My sister would wash the herbs and vegetables, and together we created a warm, loving meal under the dim glow of the oil lamp after a day of hard work and study.

As autumn began to wane, we started preparing for the Mid-Autumn Festival. The grapefruit seeds were saved, peeled, and strung into garlands, dried until they became brittle, making homemade “grapefruit firecrackers.” The number of firecrackers depended on the family’s budget, but we children always managed to gather plenty by asking neighbors. At this time, lantern-making had become a popular activity, and we would gather together, using scissors to cut open empty tin cans and shaping them into lanterns. The more skilled among us would make star-shaped lanterns from shiny paper, trimming them with colorful fringes. Soon enough, we had enough decorations for a joyful celebration, with Nga’s family bringing ripe guavas, Dương’s family providing grapefruit, and everyone sharing whatever treats they had.

On the night of the Mid-Autumn Festival, the moon shone bright and clear. The distant sound of drums echoed, urging the children to gather. The lion dancers, with their bobbing heads, led the procession, moving in rhythm to the drumbeats. The old man, with his wide grin and round belly, opened the path for the rest of us. The children followed, some holding star lanterns, others wearing crowns, spinning top lanterns, or, for those fortunate enough, lion masks bought from Hàng Mã Street. We carried our homemade creations, but our hearts were just as full of joy. The excitement of the festive atmosphere and the promise of mooncakes and fruits shared under the full moon made it all the more special.

One cool autumn morning, I accompanied my mother to the market by the dyke. At the end of the row, the fishmongers from the northern bank of the Red River were selling their catch. Among the baskets, one contained large, shiny snails. My mother selected the best ones, reminding me, as always, that snails should be plump with closed shells. She also warned against buying them during the full moon, for they would not taste as good. As a child, I didn’t fully understand these details, but I eagerly awaited the day we could enjoy my mother’s famous snail soup. The soup, fragrant with lemongrass, basil, turmeric, and the soft, earthy taste of green bananas and fried tofu, was always perfect, with just the right balance of sourness, savoriness, and heat. Even though we passed by the pork vendor, it was clear: there was nothing like the meals cooked by mother’s hands.

Now, as I look back over the many autumns I have witnessed, the flavors of my childhood remain unforgettable. Perhaps the bittersweet flavors of life today are just another part of the many tastes I once experienced. These memories, rich and vivid, continue to give me strength as I face the changing autumns ahead.

Thanh Nhàn Trần

The little feet hop excitedly as the child heads home, eagerly anticipating tomorrow's Mid-Autumn Festival at school. The child can't wait to see Uncle Cuoi and Sister Hang again. This year, the child will get to wear a Monkey King mask and hold a magical staff or a playful rabbit mask and race against the turtle. The excitement is palpable, the anticipation is real.

The child's teacher will transform into the beautiful Moon Goddess, wearing a soft sky-blue gown, a white scarf, and a crown, just like last year. She'll tell wonderful stories, ones the child has heard every year but never tires of. The child will also see Uncle Cuoi played by another teacher, dressed in a brown shirt and a headscarf, just like a true woodcutter. It's going to be so much fun, so much excitement.

The sun begins to set, casting long shadows from the trees along the road, as the child walks and marvels at the fragrant rice fields. The school is just at the edge of the village, and after class, the child and friends hold hands to walk home through the fields where the rice seems to sing in the breeze. No need for parents to pick the child up anymore—after all, they're now in the pre-primary class, unlike the younger children in the nursery. Just one more year, and then the child will be off to elementary school.

The child remembers, when the custard apple tree in Grandma's yard ripens and fills the air with its sweet fragrance, the Mid-Autumn Festival is near. The tree in front of the school starts turning golden and red, and when Mom buys new clothes and a matching scarf, that's when autumn arrives. The child wonders what makes autumn so captivating, so stirring, that Uncle Phong sings:

“Do you know the autumn breeze, so soft and light
Do you know autumn comes and the loneliness takes flight
And do you know when autumn arrives
Every heart is touched with new green vibes
Do you know autumn makes the soul soar and take flight?”

The child doesn't understand why Uncle Phong keeps singing this song, but somehow, the child knows the words by heart. When asked, he simply replies: it's autumn.

Autumn to the child means no more sweating when playing ball with friends. It means the golden sunlight bouncing off the chrysanthemums the teacher planted in the yard. It’s the coolness of the morning dew on Mom's shirt as she returns home late from work. It’s the cough of Grandpa when the wind shifts. It’s the green sticky rice Grandma gives every afternoon after class, and the sweet moon cakes Dad buys.

Autumn to the child is the plate of quince Grandma keeps for offering and dividing. The ripe, golden quince fruits, their fragrance so strong that the child can’t help but keep sniffing. Grandma says these quices have the scent of ripened rice, fresh hay, the kitchen smoke, and the village's heartfelt memories. The child feels too precious to eat them right away and gently holds them, cherishing them. The child wants a bag just like Sister Lan's, woven by Grandma’s hands, to hang by the bedside to let the fragrance of the quince and the village lull the child to sleep.

Autumn for the child means the summer holidays spent with Grandpa making baskets from bamboo, and roaming the garden with Grandma picking vegetables, waiting for Mom to return and cook dinner. Grandpa promises to take the child to the market soon to buy sketchbooks and drawing materials for the new school year. The child knows autumn has arrived when Mom takes a day off to shop for new clothes for Sister Lan and the child, as well as a new pair of shoes to look smart for school.

Autumn to the child is sitting on the front porch with Grandma, waiting for Mom to come home. The child looks up at the stars and asks Grandma about the twinkling constellations. The Big Dipper is clearly visible, like a fishing basket used by Grandpa to scoop fish from the pond. The bright moonlight shines across the fields, brushing against the bamboo, and reflects in the pond in front of the house. From afar, the child hears the chirping of crickets, the rustle of falling leaves, and the gentle calls of birds. The moon’s light shimmers, splitting into many pieces as the water ripples. Grandma calls it the Milky Way, and she tells stories of the stars, the moon, and the full moon nights.

The child enjoys going to the garden with Grandpa to pick bananas that are just starting to ripen. Grandpa says he’ll wait for them to ripen a bit more, and the biggest bananas will be saved for the child. The child loves breaking the bananas in half and dipping them in Grandma’s green sticky rice. The taste is so delightful, the child could eat until full, not wanting dinner. The child also enjoys picking persimmons with Sister Lan, waiting for them to ripen and peeling the thin skin to bite into. Their mouths and faces are covered with the sticky orange flesh, but they’re laughing with joy. Grandma says these persimmons carry the essence of the seasons, with summer’s sun and autumn’s crisp air making them sweet and delicious. Just like the rose apples Grandma grows at the corner of the garden, their pink, fragrant flesh ready to be picked, wiped on the shirt, and eaten. Uncle Phong says this is the right way to enjoy them, while the child enjoys the sweetness and crunch without the knife. The child also likes the custard apples and pomelos Grandpa grows. Sometimes, when the child is curious about when the custard apples will ripen, Grandpa reassures, “Wait for autumn, just wait for autumn.” When they ripen, Grandpa will pick them for the child, and they can share them with friends. The child can’t wait for autumn to arrive.

The child is excited for autumn, not just for the fruits in the garden but for many other reasons too. The child will move to the new class, wear new clothes, and celebrate the Mid-Autumn Festival with friends. The child will always remember the teacher’s story of the moon up high, where the immortal fairy, Hằng Nga, lives. The moon, shining so brightly, is like a house where she lives. On the brightest full moon nights, Hằng Nga wears her beautiful robes and gazes down at the earth, answering her husband’s longing. The child also remembers Uncle Cuoi, a kind woodcutter who once discovered a magical herb that could bring people back to life. Thanks to the herb, Uncle Cuoi saved many people. But because his wife was forgetful, the herb “flew back to the sky.” Unable to keep the herb, Uncle Cuoi reluctantly went to the moon with it, and he has stayed there ever since.

The child eagerly awaits the Mid-Autumn Festival, hoping to see friend Linh dance in the traditional Ham Huong dance. Maybe the child will play Uncle Dia, with a round belly and a fan, dancing alongside friend Hung, who will be dressed as a lion. Sometimes, the child and friends will sing the “Star Lantern” song. The best part is when the family gathers around the mooncake tray in the evening, and the child gets the biggest mooncakes to enjoy—a treat saved for Mid-Autumn.

The clear moonlight and the cool autumn breeze lull the child to sleep, a smile lingering on the lips. The child dreams of singing the cheerful Mid-Autumn song with friends the next day:

“The star lantern, five bright stars shining so high
The pole is so tall, it reaches the sky
I hold my lantern and sing with all my might
The star lantern shines brightly through the night!

Ting ting ting, ting ting ting
This light shines brightly, a star so pure
Ting ting ting, ting ting ting
The star of Uncle Ho shines far and near!”
Star Lantern – Pham Tuyen

Lê Hà

How many full moons are there in a person's life? It's impossible to count.

Some full moons shimmer in the memory, floating in a haze of nostalgia. They may not be as romantic as the moons of love, but the moons of youth are pure, innocent, and charming in their own right.

Once you've lived through them, they're unforgettable. I remember being enchanted by the croaking sound of the frogs in the autumn nights. The rhythm of the drums seemed to hypnotize us teenagers, making us drop everything and rush to the village yard whenever we heard the beats coming from the rice barn (or cooperative yard). Back then, autumn in my village meant floods covering the fields.

In the flooded lowlands, all we hoped for was that the water would recede so the harvest wouldn't be ruined. The water flooded the path from the village's sugar tree to the cooperative yard, and we'd roll up our pants, wading through the muddy water, always worried about leeches clinging to our legs.

Yet, every one of us was excited, eager to join in. Despite practicing for nearly a month, some of us still couldn't keep the rhythm when we marched in sync.

The most fun was the singing, dancing, and rehearsing for the skits. Some of us were shy about the dances taught by the older kids, and we'd all burst out laughing. We practiced until late at night, and when we finally got home, we washed up and fell asleep immediately, exhausted.

Then, the long-awaited day arrived after nearly a month. It was the day of the autumn camp. That night, most of us hardly slept or woke up before dawn. Dressed in our best clothes, wearing red scarves and makeshift paper hats, we looked quite official.

When I arrived, everyone had gathered, their faces glowing with excitement, though still tinged with nervousness. The camp leaders were running around preparing everything for the event.

The journey to the center of the commune was about four kilometers, and we walked there to set up camp. As we walked, the sound of the frog drums echoed with our eager footsteps. Oddly enough, despite the long distance, none of us complained about tired legs.

We entered the autumn camp, a colorful gathering of sixteen teams. The red flags of the nation and the various bright tents greeted us. The tents were made from old blankets, not as fancy as the fabrics we have today.

The entrance was decorated with paper streamers in green, red, purple, and yellow, glued to bamboo poles. Some of the tents even had beautiful arches made from palm leaves.

Inside the camp, there was always a portrait of Uncle Ho, and a neatly arranged fruit tray that the older kids had cut and prepared. There was a small desk in the study corner where Ngân, a student from my village, would always display her perfect notebook with excellent grades. Back then, I was thin and small, yet somehow I gathered the courage to stand before the entire group to lead the scouting rituals. Every year, when the camp got a top award, not only the kids but also the youth and the entire village would celebrate.

After one to one and a half days of camping, we packed up and left with the lively beat of the frog drums.

The most joyful moment was the full moon night. The moonlit trays of mooncakes, in every shade—green from pomelos, yellow from bananas, red from persimmons—filled the air with their sweet fragrance. The scent of fresh green sticky rice and mooncakes filled the evening air. The glow of star-shaped lanterns or the traditional lanterns of the moon festival lit up the entire village. I remember the lively moments when the children in the neighborhood ran to each other's houses to show off their lanterns, drums, and burning pomelo seeds. To prepare for the pomelo seed garland, we had to peel and thread the seeds for months before the full moon.

Our village would always have a grand arts festival after the full moon. A stage was set up at the rice barn, and from evening, the loudspeaker blared with the rhythmic sounds of frog drums. I felt like the drums echoed through the water. People gathered in droves to enjoy the celebration. First, the youth would perform their songs and dances, and though we weren't sure if we were good, the crowd cheered us on. Interspersed with their performances were shows by the older members of the community, from elders to the village folks. The entire night was filled with joy under the sparkling moon, and we had a blast, knowing it would be a whole year before the next celebration.

Another fun event was the day the village organized traditional games. We were thrilled with games like ring toss, tug-of-war, and jump rope. The winners received candy or small toys—prizes that always enchanted us. The best part was that on that day, we were free from household chores and could play all day long.

In the pond near the temple, they set up a bridge made from a large bamboo trunk. At the other end, there were prizes—usually a duck or a few pomelos. Everyone gathered to watch, cheering for those attempting to cross the bridge without falling into the water. The boys would climb a few steps only to slip and fall. Some would get close to the end, cheered on by the crowd, only to falter at the last moment.

Only Tuấn, the son of Uncle Thân, was skilled enough to win a prize every year in this game. When the games were over, whether we won or not, everyone left with a smile on their face.

After the festival, the rice barn was quiet again, the drums resting in a corner until next year’s autumn. The joy of the past days gradually faded, and we turned our focus back to our studies, eagerly awaiting next year's Mid-Autumn Festival.

Today's Mid-Autumn celebrations, with their grand festivities and modern entertainment, are far more elaborate than ours, but I wonder if today's children experience the same excitement and anticipation we did back then?

Even now, the atmosphere of those old Mid-Autumn nights lingers in my mind. I can never forget the smell of pomelo seeds burning in the lively air, the sound of the small drums, the glow of star lanterns, and the cheers of the children echoing through the village. The feeling still haunts me whenever I hear the sound of frog drums in the distance. The full moons of youth keep flooding back.

Hà Kim Quy

As the persistent rains of July fade like the sorrowful tears of the separated lovers, the golden autumn sun begins to take its place, and with it comes the ripening of fruits. On the streets and at the markets, the air is filled with the fragrant scent of ripe fruit. The aroma of guavas invites passersby, the scent of jackfruit fills the air, while the unmistakable odor of durian evokes memories that drift with the autumn breeze. And the ripe persimmons, golden and fragrant, beckon all who pass by. In the busyness of life, we often forget many things. Yet, the smell of persimmons, jackfruit, and guavas—fruits so familiar from our childhood—quietly remind me that autumn has already passed its midpoint this year.

I remember the autumns of years past...

Back then, a little girl would skip along behind her grandmother as they went to the temple. Decades have passed, but in her childhood memory, that small, ancient temple, covered in moss and slightly abandoned, still stands. The most memorable feature was the large tree beside it, casting a cool shade across the courtyard, with deep green leaves and thick branches. The tree's trunk was so large, it could take several people to encircle it. When asked, her grandmother told her it was a persimmon tree. Looking up, the girl saw several ripe persimmons hidden among the thick leaves. After the ceremony, on their way home, her grandmother explained that the tree had been there for as long as she could remember. She recalled how, as a child, the tree had been huge, always bearing fruit in the fall. Her grandmother even told her the story of Tấm hiding inside a persimmon. That enchanting story made the journey home seem much shorter.

A few days later, her grandmother returned from the market with small, golden persimmons that smelled wonderfully sweet. The house was filled with their fragrance. Her grandmother taught her how to weave a small basket from reed strips to carry the fruit. Clumsily, the little girl made her very first basket, a gift purchased with the pennies her grandmother had saved from selling vegetables. The persimmons were hung on a post in the center of the house, quietly filling the space with their scent for days. Eventually, the persimmons ripened and their skins darkened, the fragrance slowly fading. Her grandmother warned that if they didn't eat them, they would spoil. With a knife, her grandmother carefully slit the fruit, revealing its golden flesh. The taste of persimmons was sweet with a hint of bitterness, but to a poor child with little access to nutrition, it was a delightful treat. The fruit was small, but the seed inside was large, and before she could finish savoring the flavor, the seed slipped down her throat. Terrified, she told her grandmother, who simply laughed and reassured her that everything would be fine. Her older brother, a few years older, loudly exclaimed: "Oh no, tonight that seed will sprout inside your stomach! By morning, it will grow through your head and become as tall as the jackfruit tree outside!" Despite her grandmother's reassurances, the little girl couldn't help but feel nervous, occasionally touching her head to check if a sprout had started to grow. Now, when she looks back on that time, she smiles to herself, realizing how easily children can be tricked.

The persimmon's skin resembled a six-petaled flower, and she carefully stuck it to the post, unable to let go of the scent. Her grandmother, always caring, would save a few coins from each market trip to buy persimmons. The Mid-Autumn Festival is deeply etched in her memory, filled with the sound of frog drums, tents adorned with star-shaped lanterns, and lively performances beneath the glow of lantern light that mingled with the moonlight. The moonlit feast was filled with fruits from the family garden: bananas, sun-kissed pomelos, ripe guavas, sweet sugarcane, sticky rice cakes, and golden persimmons that carried the essence of autumn. The scent of persimmons blended with the autumn wind, carrying the memories of her childhood. As the little girl grew up, went to school, worked, married, and moved far from home, it was only when the autumn breeze returned that she would remember those times, the nostalgia creeping into her heart.

A few times, she returned home, but never found the persimmons in season. Looking up at the thick green leaves, she hoped to spot a ripe fruit, out of season. Somewhere in the fog of her memories, there is still the image of the ancient temple, the moss-covered stone, and the sturdy old persimmon tree from years ago. Now, as autumn approaches, she wonders if that old tree still bears fruit, if the persimmons are still as round, golden, and fragrant as they used to be. She silently wishes she could go back in time, to be a child again, barefoot, walking with her grandmother and mother to the market, joining the crowd of farmers with baskets of vegetables. After the market, she would skip with joy, knowing that in her grandmother's basket were some ripe guavas and a fragrant persimmon.

This afternoon, the golden autumn sun shines brightly, and a gentle breeze carries the white clouds lazily across the sky. The weather is perfect, but the people passing by are in a hurry, wearing masks, and there are no longer the sounds of the lively drums or the lanterns lighting up the streets as in previous years. Though her hair has grayed, her back has bent, her eyes are not as sharp, and her steps are slower, every Mid-Autumn Festival still fills her heart with excitement. It remains a festival of family reunions, a time of deep affection, but many people this year are unable to return home. Stopping at a roadside fruit stand, she inhales deeply, savoring the sweet fragrance of ripe fruit. Persimmons, golden and fragrant, are there. But they are not the persimmons from her hometown, the ones her grandmother would bring home after the autumn market. She could buy all the persimmons at the stall, but instead, she chooses a few, round and golden, with a few green leaves still attached. She recalls her grandmother's advice: "Perfect persimmons are round, melons are flat, and persimmons are curved..." But despite this, she picks the roundest, most fragrant ones to take home. Tonight, she will tell her children and grandchildren about her homeland, her childhood, and the autumns that have passed.

This year's Mid-Autumn Festival will feature golden persimmons on the table...

Quế Hương

"When will autumn arrive?
Persimmons and grapefruits sway beneath the full moon ..."
Nguyễn Duy

Anyone who has passed through childhood knows they can never forget the nights of the full moon in the eighth lunar month. For me, those days are forever etched in my memory. The excitement, the anticipation, and the eager hope that I would get a larger piece of mooncake than the others still feels fresh in my heart to this day. The Mid-Autumn Festivals back then may have been simple, but to us children, they were monumental events, eagerly awaited for months, bringing joy beyond words.

On that day, all the children in the village would go to school with giant lotus leaves on their heads, using them as umbrellas against the sun, looking like a bunch of little green frogs hopping along the village road. Our conversations were always centered around how many treats each of us would get.

Even if it wasn’t yet the full moon, the mere news that the older youth would come to the school to distribute gifts to the children filled us with uncontrollable joy. The treats were packed in large baskets, usually used for holding corn or rice, rather than the shiny colorful wrapping paper we have now. Yet, we were still filled with excitement, dressed in our best clothes, with red scarves neatly tied around our necks—sometimes even more polished than on the first day of school. Our eyes were wide with hunger, like little starving creatures. The gifts we received were simple: a piece of mooncake, a tiny slice of sticky rice cake (probably just one-eighth of the whole cake), and three pieces of green-wrapped Hải Châu candies. That was all, but it became a grand feast of childhood, full of autumn, lotus leaves, and the scent of green rice.

Those days, so distant now, were filled with the laughter and joy of being a child, but the sounds of drums and the laughter from lion dance performances still linger in my ears. We would make our own star lanterns out of colored paper. Though our childhood was poor, it was rich in sweet memories, memories that would carry us through the stormy days of life.

Another Mid-Autumn Festival is approaching. Now, I am a mother of two, and I still find joy in celebrating the festival with fruits like persimmons, apples, and grapefruits. I’m not sure if it's silly, but I feel my heart soften after all the tiring days. I find myself loving life more and sharing in the simple joys of childhood again. I am grateful for life, for my children, for they have helped me grow and understand the meaning of doing things with purpose. Through them, I’ve learned to overcome much of the world’s gossip and trials.

I love my childhood so much!

Đoàn Thị Vy

One day in August, I could already feel the golden autumn sunlight shimmering, like honey spilling out of a jar; in the haze of memories, I stood at the edge, caught between a rainy, stormy present and the distant echo of my childhood, quietly whispering from afar. I suddenly realized that childhood wasn't just a part of the past—it felt as though it was still here, lingering, as fresh as if it had just happened. Even in the blink of an eye, through the fog, colors and sounds would swirl around me like a soft breeze carrying faded memories.

But even these fleeting thoughts weren’t enough to open the door to the past. It was only when the train of memories blew its whistle, pulling me back, that I felt the pang of nostalgia. It reminded me that not everyone gets to preserve their childhood. And once it's lost, it’s nearly impossible to find again—what remains are just fragments, patched together with time, like mending a broken clock. I look at the children of today, caught in a whirlwind of textbooks, social media trends, and fashion fads, and I wonder if they ever long for a simpler time, like I did. But they don't, and I, too, am no exception—a grown adult, searching to cry for the childhood I left behind.

On an evening, as twilight settled, I cried in the face of those childhood memories, feeling like moss clinging to an old wall. The more I tried to peel away, the more memories surfaced, as if a one-way ticket had been stamped for me to return to the past. I thought of the children today celebrating the Mid-Autumn Festival—how much they seemed the same. They flocked to the streets under the moon, blending into the crowds, snapping photos, watching lion dances squeezed between swarms of people. I watched them quietly, fascinated by the scene, thinking to myself, 'How sad for them, they never had a childhood like mine.' But then I paused and asked myself, 'Does a childhood have to be like mine to be called a real childhood?' Sure, I experienced simple, quiet memories, but they are lucky to live in a time full of modernity, color, vibrancy, and abundance. They grow up in the flow of today's fast-paced world, which isn’t a misfortune. Childhood looks different for each generation, shaped by its own era, and it's only through these differences that we all learn and grow.

Through the lens of time, through the fog of nostalgia, or simply by looking at the children around me, I see my son lost in a book, *“Give Me a Ticket to Childhood”* by Nguyễn Nhật Ánh. My childhood is long past, and I read that book a long time ago, but somehow, as I watch him, I find myself in those pages. I drift in the same currents of thought. I smile and then open YouTube to play the song *Donna Donna*, a tune I first heard on a VTV2 educational program. How do I even begin to divide up these overflowing memories, these feelings that are both vast and fleeting, yet guide me back home? I remember the day I left my mother’s side, crying helplessly to the tune of Joan Baez's voice. I imagined myself as the little calf, yearning to return to the warm home where my mother cooked in the kitchen, where my father played chess with Uncle Chín under the cool shade of the mango tree, while I soared freely like the calf in the open sky.

The street is still drowning in the long rain, the path is flooded, and I feel like I can no longer see, feel, or wait for that peace of mind. But even so, I long for a moment of quiet to cry over the lost days of childhood. The pieces of memory continue to spin in my mind, sometimes haunting my dreams, especially the scene of sitting, crying on the porch, ignoring the rain. I still hear my mother's words, 'When you turn your back on sorrow, it can never stay.' The comfort she couldn't give me will be whispered by time, as long as I learn to find balance, adapt, and fill the loneliness with serenity. When I embrace the quiet, the storm will fade away.'

By the window as autumn approaches, the wind and rain continue to blow. The fragmented memories return, enough to bring tears to my eyes. I realize that sometimes, it’s important to be true to our feelings, to breathe fully without holding back, to let warmth fill us and carry us through life’s journey, healing the coldest days. Our childhood memories might not be vast, but it's okay to cry when we can. Like me, before my childhood, when I wanted to drift off in the afternoon’s fading light, wild and lost, searching for my mother, far away in the old garden.

Nguyễn Thị Diễm

I can say with full confidence, without fear of being accused of bias, that the moon on the 15th of August is the most beautiful, the brightest. On this night, the moon always shines a perfect, pure white, and the sky is deep and cloudless. The moonlight spreads across rivers, hills, villages, and towns—sparkling and mystical. The breeze rustles outside the porch, adding to the charm. Everything seems to be seen through a new lens. The atmosphere is filled with a gentle fragrance, coming from fruits and flowers, from the rice fields almost ready for harvest. The sound of the drumbeat somewhere brings back vivid memories of my childhood, celebrating the Mid-Autumn Festival.

In these days, every street in the city seems unrecognizable. Huge red advertising banners hang above, and colorful lights flicker like they’re inviting you to come closer. Streets like Ho Chi Minh Avenue, Trần Hưng Đạo, Đồng Xuân, and Sơn Hòa are filled with people. And that doesn’t even include the smaller streets or markets. Shops that once sold fabrics or miscellaneous items now showcase a wide range of Mid-Autumn goodies—traditional and new.

Imported goods are everywhere, from plastic, wooden, or bamboo toys to colorful, eye-catching decorations. The lights glow bright, almost like a magical world. People leave their bikes to walk on the crowded streets. Grandparents, parents, everyone, excitedly rush to buy Mid-Autumn treats for their children and grandchildren. Lanterns shaped like stars, colorful red lanterns, lion masks with glittering eyes, and fruit-shaped figurines—all sold with bustling calls and laughter, with some grumbles mixed in.

Every year, around the 10th of August, my mother would prepare an altar with offerings on a table. As dusk fell, we’d carry it out into the yard, and late at night, we’d bring it back inside. There was nothing fancy about it—just a way to show off to the neighbors. She did this every year until the end of the full moon. On that table, there were many different kinds of food—glowing golden mooncakes, smooth, cool rice cakes, tiny green bean cakes, red persimmons, yellow pomelos... Nature blessed us with an abundance of fruits at this time of year, not to mention the imported treats. There were also animals made from pomelo rind, with eyes made from glossy longan seeds. There were also figurines—pigs, fish, and other creatures shaped from dough, so lifelike they were almost real. We used to marvel at them. These days, all toys and foods have to have labels with complete product details, including manufacturer information, ingredients, and expiration dates. People are worried about chemicals and toxins. But back then, no one ever thought about such things. We lived simply and trusted each other like neighbors.

During these times, I felt ecstatic, visiting one house after another. Every neighbor, even those without children, was preparing offerings for the full moon festival. By dusk, I’d already insisted my mother light all the lanterns we had—star-shaped, folding lanterns, fish-shaped ones, and even the old military lantern that told stories of ancient legends. It wasn’t until I went to school that I understood the full meaning behind these stories. I admired our ancestors for creating such thoughtful tales, each one meaningful and beautiful. They all conveyed the value of kindness triumphing over evil and deceit.

We banged on drums loudly, and the small yard in front of our house became the stage for lion dances. The moonlight shone as bright as day, and the surrounding trees seemed to laugh and celebrate with us. Those nights, I stayed up very late, with my heart racing in excitement. One night felt like a whole week. I couldn’t wait for the morning to come. But for what? Perhaps just to gaze at the altar until my eyes were satisfied, or to wander the streets, hoping to find new and exciting toys to bring home.

Back then, we children only knew how to use hunger strikes to get what we wanted. Parents would panic if their kids refused to eat, and that’s when the treats would come. It was a festival for children, after all. Sitting in class, I could barely focus. The teacher’s words seemed to pass through one ear and out the other. I wonder if children today are the same? Regardless of the time or generation, children always share something in common—they belong to the future.

In a half-dream, half-wake state, I would dream of Uncle Cuội and the Jade Rabbit descending from the moon to play and sing with us: "Uncle Cuội, Uncle Cuội, come play with me, with rice cakes and glutinous rice, with the warmth of home." Uncle Cuội would give me some leaves to heal the sick, and the Jade Rabbit would dance and laugh with us.

How strange. The dream pulled me into the ancient tale of why Uncle Cuội had to live on the moon forever. Then, I woke up, and everything was gone—the leaves, the moon, the dream. My hand reached out, but there was nothing left. I lay back, hoping the dream would continue, but there was no trace. I felt sad, almost like crying.

Childhood is often selfish. If anyone criticized our mooncake offering or said the lion mask was too small or ugly, we would hate them. We wouldn’t speak to them for days. Everything from our home was the best and most beautiful. No one else’s offerings could compare.

On the night of the full moon, my mother would burn incense and make offerings to the heavens and the earth. I couldn’t hear what she prayed for, but her posture was always respectful. It turns out, the Mid-Autumn Festival wasn’t only for us children; the adults took it very seriously too.

Even now, I don’t understand why the memories of celebrating the full moon during my childhood remain so vivid. It’s strange. Sometimes, I forget events from just yesterday, but the memories of those moonlit nights have never faded. Maybe life in the digital age moves too quickly. We’re often too busy to stop and reflect on what we’re experiencing before it passes us by.

As midnight passed, the moon descended, just low enough to be level with the tallest buildings. The sound of the drumbeat grew louder, strengthening my spirit, sharpening my senses, and clearing my mind. Standing on the balcony, I could see the river below, shrouded in mist, its surface reflecting the moonlight.

The river at night was smaller, more delicate, like a gentle brushstroke on paper, faintly rippling. The moon was inside the water, and the water held the moon’s reflection. The croaking of frogs echoed, as if trying to hold onto time. Far away, the lights of children carrying lanterns during the Mid-Autumn procession flickered to the beat of the drum. The moon was so beautiful, the wind so refreshing, and the clouds so purple. It made those of us far from home, for any reason, feel a deep longing for our roots.

Essay by Nguyễn Sỹ Đoàn

Every Mid-Autumn Festival, I can't help but feel a wave of nostalgia for those carefree childhood days, full of simple joys and unforgettable memories. Back then, life was uncomplicated but filled with laughter and excitement, and the most memorable part was always the night of the full moon in August.

As soon as the sun dipped below the mountains, I would wash up, eat, and then rush outside to join the other children. The sound of frog drums and our laughter echoed through the small village. The full moon hung in the sky like a giant lantern, casting its soft, cool light across the countryside. We spent the evening playing games—tug-of-war, blindfolded drum hitting, mock battles, and blindfolded hitting of posts—running and chasing, shouting in excitement. We were drenched in sweat, but none of us minded, lost in the joy of the moment. The laughter of childhood was pure and untainted.

During the Mid-Autumn procession, we lined up into two long rows under the guidance of our older siblings. Each of us held a star lantern high. A few days before, my father had made me a star-shaped lantern from bamboo, wrapping it in shiny colored paper. A small candle in the center illuminated the lantern, its light twinkling as we paraded down the village roads.

At the front of our group, a drumbeat set the pace. The large drum was attached to a bicycle, one person pedaling while the other played. Two smaller drums were worn by children, suspended by strings around their necks as they walked and drummed. After a short distance, the leader would signal for us to stop and lead us in singing traditional songs. One of the most beloved was “Chiếc Đèn Ông Sao,” written by Phạm Tuyên. Its familiar lyrics had become a symbol of the festive spirit:

The five-pointed star lantern, brightly colored and tall,/ With a long handle that reaches high above our heads,/ We hold the lanterns and sing with joy,/ The star lanterns shine brightly on the night of the full moon festival./ Tùng rinh rinh tùng tùng tùng rinh rinh/ This bright light shines across the mountains,/ Tùng rinh rinh rinh rinh tùng rinh rinh/ The star of Uncle Hồ shining everywhere.

We circled the entire village with our lanterns before returning to the gathering place to enjoy more festivities.

The Mid-Autumn treats were simple—lemon candies, gummy candies, biscuits, or fruits like persimmons and pomelos—but each of us waited eagerly for our turn to receive them from the leaders. We sang and danced, sharing in the joyous celebration. When I returned home, my family would gather to enjoy the mooncake offerings under the moonlight. My mother would lay out a mat in the yard, bringing down a plate of sweets, bananas, and a dish of soaked persimmons that had been placed on the family altar. We sat together, gazing at the moon and enjoying our treats.

As the night grew later, the moon became even brighter, casting its glow over the landscape, shimmering on the banana leaves in the backyard. The moonlight soaked the earth with its cool, dewy touch. I would lie back, legs crossed, staring up at the sky, dreaming of Uncle Cuội sitting under the banyan tree. I would recall the old nursery rhyme my grandmother used to sing on starry summer nights:

“The boy Cuội sits under the banyan tree,/ Calling his father to come back from the fields,/ His father is cutting grass in the sky,/ His mother is riding a horse to invite the elders./ His grandfather holds a pen and ink,/ His grandmother holds money to redeem the banyan leaves.”

Lost in thought, I would eventually drift off to sleep, unaware of when the dreams began. My mother would gently carry me to bed, where I would continue to dream of fairytale worlds.

The Mid-Autumn Festival of my childhood was simple yet vibrant, filled with warmth and joy.

Though time passes and my childhood fades into memory, the Mid-Autumn Festival remains. The autumn moon continues to shine down every year, lighting up the paths and bringing happiness and excitement to the children.

By Đoàn Hạnh

When the last few lychee fruits on the far side of the river are fading away, and the days are getting shorter, it marks the arrival of the harvest season. Autumn, like a young girl, becomes less dreamy, her delicate beauty settling into a quiet stillness, reaching its peak during the full moon of August.

Even though it’s been decades since childhood, and those innocent memories now only reside in my mind, I still find myself thinking about the Mid-Autumn Festival. I can almost smell the sweet aroma of chestnuts carried by the distant wind, reminding me of a time when life was simpler. As we grow older, we find ourselves yearning for the past. The further away it drifts, the more it tugs at our hearts.

My father once told me that the Mid-Autumn full moon belongs to children, a time when the sorrow of the Cowherd and Weaver Girl’s separation fades into the distant sky, leaving behind a clear, starry river—the milk of the sky meant for children. The autumn sky seems like the innocent eyes of a child, pure and untouched by the world around them. Perhaps that’s why, on every full moon in August, all the love and care are focused on the children.

As I look at the persimmon tree in my father’s garden, its red lanterns hanging on bare branches, and the clusters of yellow bananas in the backyard, I know that Mid-Autumn is approaching. Every year, children prepare for the festival as soon as the previous one ends. The seeds of persimmons are carefully peeled and strung into long necklaces to dry, waiting to be burned during the festival night. Bamboo sticks are shaved smooth, and colored paper is carefully saved to make star-shaped lanterns and spinning lanterns.

Sometimes, when we couldn’t afford colored paper, we would make lanterns with old newspaper, but the excitement remained the same. Almost every child knew how to make their own star-shaped lanterns from bamboo sticks or lanterns from empty milk cans or soap boxes. The girls would gather to scrape the skins off lotus seeds, threading them onto sharp sticks to make drumsticks, which we used to beat on empty cans, creating a loud and joyful noise.

The children in my village also had a unique handmade toy: clay fireworks. The clay was collected from the edges of dried ponds, and the boys would carry it home, kneading it with water until it became soft and pliable. In the afternoon, on the day of the full moon, each child would take a portion of the clay and mold it into small round pots, ready to be used as fireworks.

Each child would keep their clay fireworks safe, making sure they didn’t dry out, so they could bring them out at night to compete for the loudest explosion. After dinner, we would gather at my house, where the smooth, spacious yard was perfect for the contest. My father and the other adults from the alley acted as judges.

The prize for the loudest fireworks was always a pair of croissants that my father had bought from the town. The fireworks contest was always the first activity, so that the sound of the explosions could reach the moon, echoing through the village. The children would sing the nursery rhyme: ‘Firecrackers go boom, boom, who can bear it? Can they rise above the treetops and light up the whole village?’ Even after all these years, I still remember those moments with a lump in my throat.

Today, life is more prosperous, and children have an abundance of toys—colorful, varied, and with sounds both local and foreign, available in every shop. Adults now take this opportunity to gather, to eat, drink, and celebrate. There are performances for the children, and giant lanterns twinkle in the night, while we fondly reminisce about our own childhoods. Even though I’m busy with work during the festival, I still make time to take my children to buy mooncakes, pomelos, bananas, and other offerings to set up a fruit tray for the full moon ritual in our yard.

While my children play and run with their friends to welcome the moon, I find myself sitting at the edge of my porch, gazing up at the bright moon. I can’t help but feel a deep longing. I can almost imagine my father back home, sitting by the water, squinting his eyes at the moon, asking my mother, ‘Have the children gone out to play with their lanterns yet?’

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