Top 10 Most Beautiful Essays on Nostalgia

Some memories linger, deep and long.

Some memories come and go like a sudden shower of rain.

Some memories fade, blurred in the haze of time.

There are memories that last a lifetime, never to be forgotten.

Remembering someone is how the heart reminds us of our love for them. Has anyone ever missed someone so much, to the point of feeling ‘crazy’, where even the smallest message from that person, in the midst of our weakest and most exhausted moments, can make all the sadness vanish like it was never there? There are times when loneliness and despair hit hard, and even though we're miles apart, we just want to run to them, to be held, to find comfort... Nostalgia refuses to stay quiet!

When we’re newly in love, who doesn’t constantly think of their beloved? It seems like no matter what, the image of that person fills our thoughts. As the new day begins, before our eyes even open to the sunlight, our mind races ahead, refusing to let go of the thought of them. Our hearts can’t calm down, beating wildly for their smile, their eyes, their voice... Then there are those moments when we smile quietly to ourselves in the middle of a crowded street, simply remembering them, remembering the times we held hands, carefree and happy, memories that we can never forget. As the day ends, we may be in different places, doing different things, thinking about different things, but we still sleep at the same hour, thinking of each other in our dreams.

In the years we’ve loved each other, we’ve always held special places in each other’s hearts, though the intensity of that longing has faded somewhat. Perhaps it’s because we’ve grown used to having that special person in our lives, and the longing has become a habit, a natural part of us. No matter how busy we get with work, no matter how fast-paced life becomes, as long as I can still feel your presence in my thoughts, as long as your heart still races when you think of me, as long as we remember each other...

Some days, nostalgia feels strange…

But do you know, no matter how many days pass, when the memories may rest or sometimes slip from my mind, there are still those days when nostalgia strikes out of nowhere. Because I miss you so much!

“How many memories does it take to call it love?” – I don’t know. But I do know that no matter how many things I can count in this world, the memories I hold for you can never be numbered. There are four seasons in a year, and we meet so rarely, our encounters fleeting and brief, only able to touch eyes, hold hands, share a kiss... before we must part again, leaving behind a longing that words cannot describe. Whether it's a chilly spring day or a crisp autumn breeze gently playing with your hair, everything feels cold and empty without you. Everywhere I go, I see your face, feel your eyes, your smile. Those times apart leave my heart aching, my tears threatening to fall, everything I see seems dull and sorrowful without you. Do you know? During those times, I wish time could stand still, that the clock could stop, that the road wouldn’t move forward, leaving you behind. I wish for a time machine, like the one in Doraemon, to travel through that magical door, just to see you, to hold you... On days like this, all I can think about is you, and all the wishes and ‘if onlys’ fill my mind.

But in the end, all those memories that surge forth in those unexpected days help me realize just how much I miss you, and how deeply I love you! Though those strange days of longing bring sadness, they also make my love for you grow stronger.

Some days, nostalgia feels strange!

One hour has 60 minutes, one minute has 60 seconds, but I don’t know that a day without you feels like a century.

Tâm Duyệt

The cold of winter has returned to my school once again, drifting in with the chill of the season. Life has been so busy lately that I’ve barely had time to appreciate the soft breezes or the quiet whispers of winter winds sneaking through small windows. This morning, as I arrived at school, I could feel the cold air creeping in again. The light drizzle hung in the air, and the cold followed me down the long hallway of the administration building. The students were all bundled up in coats, and the girls had wrapped scarves around their necks...

Suddenly, I found myself thinking back to those distant early winter days long ago. December of my childhood, braving the cold with my mother as we went to the fields, picking mustard greens to eat, the sharp taste still lingering in my mouth. I remember the peaceful, quiet expanse of the countryside, where the green of corn and sweet potatoes were gently hidden by morning mist. If you looked closely, you could see mustard flowers blooming, their golden petals adorned with dewdrops, as if they were pushing through the fog to show their beauty. The sweet potato vines were growing strong, and the diligent farmers had planted additional crops of mustard greens to supplement their income. It seemed that the fields were alive with vibrant green.

The countryside has always been the same, like a mother’s embrace nurturing the village during the harvest season. My mother worked hard in the fields, gathering bundles of vegetables to sell at the market. She also harvested large, fresh mustard greens, drying them under the sun to make pickles. Those golden pickles were a part of our childhood. They were often served alongside yams or sweet potatoes, simple yet comforting meals we ate every day. In the mornings, we would hastily eat some boiled sweet potatoes and salted eggplants before happily heading off to school. Those pickles and sweet potatoes nourished us and helped us grow...

In December, as we approached the end of our senior year of high school, my friends began writing in each other’s yearbooks, some pages soaked with tears of parting. The ink was filled with all the emotions of our school years. Some wrote poems for others, and others filled pages with unsaid words. Yet some couldn’t even express what they felt before the final goodbye came. During those early winter nights, when we were busy cramming for exams, the wind would slip through the small window and stir up the memories of our student days. The cold of early winter would inspire someone to boldly knit a scarf as a gift, a gift that would become a cherished memento, carried with us for the rest of our lives. December brought foggy mornings when we would hastily eat a sweet potato before racing off to school with our friends. The wind would cut through our old coats, biting at our hands and feet, but we still played and laughed together, pedaling our bikes as fast as we could to get to school on time. I remember that one time when the light rain gave me the chance to give a friend a ride to school. The road was slippery, and my friend fell off their bike. The chain broke. So, I volunteered to lend my bike, smiling quietly with some unspoken thought in the cold winter air. Perhaps that was the most beautiful excuse during those “dreamy” school years. And later, when we looked back, that pure moment would awaken memories of both joy and sadness from our innocent school days. In a brief moment, I wondered:

Do you still remember, or have you forgotten?

Those years of youth, as we grew like leaves

Who are you now with, so strangely?

And now, far away, where are you?

Do you still remember, or have you forgotten?

December

Arrives with its cold touch

Your scarf wrapped around your neck

With tiny drops of dew on it

December was clear, still, and filled with the sadness of a poem the teacher taught us, “You took someone to the river, but didn’t cross it / Why do I hear waves inside my heart? / The evening is neither red nor golden / Yet I see the sunset in your eyes…” I sat listening to those verses, lost in distant thoughts...

Just a few months left, and we, the friends who have spent three years together in high school, will soon part ways. Some of us might never meet again, and others may wait many years before we’re reunited. Just thinking about this makes my heart ache. The words of those poems continue to echo in my heart… The phone buzzes, and a message reads: “I miss the school, the teachers, and everyone so much!” Perhaps winter makes our hearts long for the past, for the school years. How could we not remember the mornings when we would gather around a bench in front of the classroom, greeting each other with warm smiles? How could we forget the hill we had to climb every day at the school gate? The hill holds memories of being punished by the teachers for being late, running down the same hill during breaks to grab snacks at the canteen, and sharing the excitement of a new outfit with friends. The hill was where we grew up...

“Tung! Tung! Tung…” The sound of the school bell echoed through the air.

I was startled by the loud sound. It seemed the bell was warmer today, as if someone was calling out to someone far away, somewhere on the streets or in faraway lands. The bell echoed in my heart, bringing back the sounds of distant memories.

The nostalgia of early winter has flooded back...

Nguyễn Đình Ánh

The morning mist hung over the narrow lanes, and my soul felt as hazy as the surface of Hoan Kiem Lake. I found myself reminiscing about the passionate days of youth, living within the heart of Hanoi. The long streets of the city were no longer just streets; they had become a sky full of memories. A soft, intimate monologue echoed within me, at times forgotten, at other times suddenly resurfacing. Hanoi had left indelible scars on my heart, deep wounds filled with both pain and love.

The first time I came to Hanoi was when my uncle drove me from the countryside to take my university entrance exams. The summer sun beat down fiercely, piercing through my thin shirt. My backpack was heavy with books, but my heart was heavy with the nostalgia of my last summer as a student. Hanoi welcomed me with the hustle of street corners, crowded stalls, and vendors carrying their goods on shoulder poles. My uncle took me to Trang Tien ice cream, where I had my first bite of the refreshing treat. Its delicate taste lingered on my tongue, and for a moment, the scorching heat of the summer seemed to melt away. After that exam season, I officially became a resident of Hanoi, staying for five years to study.

In those early days, I was a stranger in the city. Surrounded by both old friends and new faces, I felt out of place and longed for home. One day, my philosophy teacher allowed us to write down a wish on a small anonymous slip of paper. Hanoi, at that time, felt so unfamiliar to me, a small girl in a vast city. I felt lonely, lost, and overwhelmed with sadness. I carefully wrote on the paper, 'I wish for everyone to live together in love and not suffer from the pain of longing.' When my teacher read my wish aloud, he laughed, amused by the innocence of an eighteen-year-old. Youth, with all its purity and innocence, often yearns for a world free of pain and separation. But doesn’t everyone go through the struggles of love and longing at some point in life?

In the afternoons, I would cycle along Lang Ha street, turning onto Lang road on my plum-colored bike. The trees on the sides of the road formed a canopy, and golden leaves fluttered in the wind. Those little moments, simple yet so full of meaning, made me long for my hometown even more.

The dormitory in Dinh Cong housed poor students from all corners of the country. We found comfort in each other, sharing our joys and sorrows, and trying to forget the ache of homesickness. We would ride our bikes around Hanoi’s streets at night, unable to afford the luxury of fancy cafés or restaurants. Instead, we would gaze at them as we passed by, feeling a strange connection to the bright city lights. Hanoi was becoming more than just a city to me—it was a place where I grew up, where my memories were forged. I recalled how my uncle would bring me gifts when he returned from business trips in the city—new clothes, candy, and trinkets. That was enough to make me eagerly await his visits, looking forward to the weekend when he would come home. Hanoi, in my memories, was a place of radiant lights and fleeting moments.

As the years went by, I grew stronger. I worked as a tutor to make ends meet. On the day I received my first paycheck, I treated myself to a warm, red winter jacket. The streets of Chua Boc were lined with fashionable shops, bustling with life. That year’s Christmas was particularly cold. The streets were filled with people wearing red down jackets, which had become a popular trend. He rode me to St. Joseph’s Cathedral on his motorcycle, and though the bells did not ring, the joy in my heart resonated louder than any sound. My first Christmas in Hanoi was one I would never forget—marked by the sweetness of first love.

The nights in Hanoi were always peaceful. The city never slept. Walking through the streets, I found myself immersed in the glowing lights and the hum of vendors selling their goods. I wandered the streets, feeling the changing seasons in the air. Hanoi’s seasonal transitions were always so poignant. They crept into my heart, awakening feelings that were both tender and profound. The charm of Hanoi stayed with me, lingering in my memory, forever entwined with the city’s pulse.

I remember the evenings after a sudden downpour. The streets seemed cleansed, the air fresh. He and I would stop at a café by the street, the one with the old bicycle as part of its décor—a symbol of youthful love. We sipped iced coffee, listening to the soothing music of Trinh Cong Son, feeling as if time itself had slowed down. The warmth of the coffee matched the warmth of my heart.

Sometimes, when hunger struck, we would turn into a small bánh mì shop on Thái Thịnh street. The young staff greeted us with smiles, and though I couldn’t find a place like that after returning home, the memory of it filled me with an intense longing for Hanoi.

Then, there was the relentless rain of early winter in 2008. The downpour stretched on for days, flooding the streets of Hanoi, turning them into rivers. We rushed out, riding our bikes through the waves, laughing and cheering. It was one of the most memorable and heartwarming experiences of my life, and whenever I think of it, I smile, as if I could merge with the “river of Hanoi” from that time.

Hanoi is vast and forgiving. No one who has passed through it ever forgets. Everyone experiences their own moments of innocence and growth, love and loss. I, too, have walked through the ups and downs of youth in Hanoi, and I will never forget the traces I left in this city. Whether joy or sorrow, it all comes down to one thing—remembering. Hanoi will always have a special place in my heart.

Nguyễn Thanh Nga

At the end of April, I find myself yearning for the sau fruit blossoms. These tiny white flowers, clustered together like sweet-smelling pearls, bloom delicately on the branches, their fragrance drifting in the cool winds that signal the end of the season. Bân, with a wistful heart, can’t help but cling to April, wishing for the scent of the sau flowers to prolong the beauty of spring.

The sau flowers in April are simple yet gentle, like a shy young girl coming of age. The delicate blossoms hide behind the lush green leaves, only visible to those who pay close attention. Their fragrance, soft and light, lingers in the air, unlike the boldness of the purple jacaranda flowers or the fiery brilliance of the flaming red of the flamboyant tree. The beauty of the sau flower blooms quietly, making its mark on the memories of all who live in Hanoi, a city where the refreshing green of the sau tree can be found on almost every street.

April arrives, and the sau flowers bloom, urging the trees to shed their old leaves and don a new outfit. The sau trees, which remain evergreen throughout the year, suddenly burst into gold, as though autumn has come early. Hanoi in April—Hanoi is dreamlike when walking along the tree-lined streets of Phan Dinh Phung, Tran Hung Dao, or Tran Phu.

Who scattered the golden autumn leaves
Across the sky of Hanoi, stepping into summer?

Hanoi enters summer with a quiet beauty, blending shades of autumn into the warmth of the season. The golden leaves blanket the ground, interspersed with small white sau flowers, like tiny bells scattered on the path, making each step feel hesitant and full of longing. It’s a bittersweet feeling when one season merges into another, a gentle excitement as summer arrives, bringing the sun, the breeze, and the vibrant colors of life. Hope and faith rise once more.

Summer is coming to Hanoi! In just a few days, the once delicate blossoms will give way to small, round fruits hanging like the eyes of the season. The sau flower season is brief! Just a few days, and the trees will transform, their fresh green leaves preparing for summer. No wonder poet Xuan Dieu wrote:

Just a few days ago, flowers bloomed,
Their fragrance lingered strongly,
Suddenly, it seemed like a fleeting dream,
The fruits are already here for real.
(Excerpt from: 'The Young Sau Fruit Up High')

Before long, the bright blue sky will be dotted with bunches of green sau fruit, swaying gently in the wind. When summer truly arrives, the first rains will come, heavy and sudden, washing everything clean. My mother will go to the market to buy fresh, tender water spinach to cook. The tangy and refreshing water spinach soup with young sau fruit makes a perfect summer meal. Forget about fine dining; I crave the simple comfort of my mother’s sau soup. The flavor is sour yet smooth, not sharp like lemon, but rich and cloudy in a way only sau fruit can be, perfectly complementing a bowl of rice and vegetables. Summer is here, and this longing fills me up.

The sau flower season comes in April, but the harvest season is in September. It’s another time of seasonal transition. At the start of the sau season, the leaves turn a deep golden yellow. By the end of the season, the ripe fruits are bathed in the warm sunlight, inviting autumn to arrive. In the heat of the midday sun, a cold glass of sau juice, flavored with ginger, sugar, and the tangy taste of sau, quenches any thirst. Every street corner in Hanoi seems to have a stall offering this sweet treat, a familiar sight for the locals.

As autumn approaches, the sau fruits ripen to a rich golden color. Housewives carefully peel the fruits, carving them into spirals before soaking them in sugar, salt, and chili. This popular snack awakens all the senses—its color, taste, and even the sound of biting into the crunchy fruit. The golden skin, the white pulp, and the vibrant red chili blend together, creating a burst of flavor that lingers in the mouth. Each bite of ripe sau fruit is like savoring a moment of life itself.

The season of sau fruit has come again! The heart of every person far from home aches with longing—remembering the simple dishes like sour sau soup, the childhood snacks, and the golden leaves on the paths lined with memories of days gone by. Oh, how I long for those days!

Trần Thanh Nhàn

'Do you know? The autumn winds have arrived. The gentle sunbeams stretch long across the streets, while my heart sends out a thread of longing across distant stormy lands, leaving me with a restless, nostalgic feeling…'. I woke up this morning to a text message from my wife, sharing this verse with me, and I couldn’t help but smile, grateful that she had reminded me that the autumn breeze was here!

When people talk about the autumn breeze, they often think of Hanoi, with its distinctive scent of milk flowers, graceful long dresses, and narrow alleys that seem to capture the poetic transition between autumn and winter. The autumn winds of Hanoi have left an indelible mark on the hearts of its people, inspiring countless poems, songs, and paintings that enhance the beauty of life.

But the autumn breeze is not just for Hanoi. It belongs to all of northern Vietnam, a region with four distinct seasons—spring, summer, autumn, and winter. By October, when autumn is already well underway, the sun becomes gentler, and the rainy season has passed. That's when the autumn winds arrive, bringing with them a crisp chill that is uniquely their own.

As the autumn breeze sweeps in, life seems to slow down, filled with more warmth and affection. The breeze is gentle and soothing, easing the heat of the recent summer without the cold bite of winter. It whispers, caresses like a quiet pause in the symphony of changing seasons, bringing peace to the heart, no matter how chaotic the outside world may be.

I remember my childhood, when the autumn winds would arrive, and my mother would start opening old trunks, searching for last year's coats to prepare for the coming winter. The sight of her walking down the street with her basket, filled with ginger tea, boiled corn, cassava, and rice cakes, all while the autumn breeze blew around us, is a memory I can never forget. Her humble street market business helped feed my siblings and me, supporting our family. My father, meanwhile, worked diligently on the land, planting vegetables. The arrival of the autumn breeze was also the time he began preparing incense for the Lunar New Year. Life passed by simply, but filled with love—from my parents, my teachers, and the autumn winds that nurtured my soul, teaching me to cherish life, to love, and to be thankful for what I have.

Here, there is no autumn breeze—only the scorching sun and untamed winds swirling around us. The island I live on is far out in the vast ocean, a distant and isolated place. My northern siblings and I often wish we could feel the touch of the autumn breeze again, to ease our homesickness and longing for home. The sea roars day and night, with waves crashing as if they are determined to break the peaceful silence. We must remain vigilant, guarding our homeland. As night falls, my comrades and I gather together, sharing stories and memories of the autumn breeze, talking about the home we miss so much. In those moments, the ache of homesickness becomes a little more bearable.

This year, I’ve missed the autumn breeze again. Two years ago, I was fortunate to be on leave just as October was ending. Before I had to return to duty, my wife and I took a quick trip back to our village. My father had passed away five years ago, and my mother had grown weaker with age. On that chilly day, with a bowl of ginger tea in hand, my mother served us, and memories of my childhood rushed back. I couldn’t help but feel a lump in my throat, unable to express what I was feeling.

Longing for the autumn winds that had accompanied me throughout my youth, I find myself loving life more deeply, finding strength to face whatever lies ahead, no matter how difficult or dangerous it may be.

Lam Giang

Standing still beneath the tree, she gazed up and saw clusters of white pomelos in full bloom. The flowers were as white as memories, as white as clouds, as white as dreams. She gently touched them, feeling a rush of nostalgia...

This was the pomelo tree in her backyard, the one her father had planted for her mother because she loved washing her hair with pomelo leaves, enjoying their fragrant scent each Lunar New Year. Her mother once shared this story with her, telling her how the tree had been planted just a few days after their wedding. The tree’s age matched the years her parents had been married.

At first, she didn’t understand the significance of the story. As a child, she didn’t grasp the romantic gestures in her parents’ lives, which were marked more by hard work and struggle than by sentimental love. She probably dismissed it as an idealistic fantasy, a fleeting moment in a busy, troubled life.

She let the story fade away, as casually as one forgets yesterday’s events.

As a child, she would often daydream under the tree, collecting the white pomelo petals and placing them in a little cloth pouch by her desk. Sometimes, when the longing took over, she would open the pouch, close her eyes, and breathe in the sweet fragrance...

In her childhood, she eagerly awaited the arrival of the Lunar New Year. For her, the pomelo tree was the herald of spring, as peach and apricot blossoms never came to their humble home.

She would wait with anticipation, nervously asking, “Is the New Year coming soon?” But the adults were always too busy to answer. She would turn to the little green buds, hoping they would give her a sign, but the buds hadn’t even appeared yet.

Then, one day, she exclaimed in delight as she squinted through the window, “Ah, look, new shoots!” She was enchanted by the tiny, delicate, emerald-green shoots, which, after a few days of spring rain, blossomed into tender, young leaves.

She would wait, heart racing with excitement. One, two, three, four... Ah, little buds began to form at the ends of the branches. Tiny green beads grew bigger by the day, soon turning into pearls of white, glistening with dew. In a few more days, the petals began to open, like a tiny princess shyly lifting her veil to smile at her prince. The flowers blossomed fully, revealing their radiant beauty and releasing a fragrance that was intoxicating.

She closed her eyes and let the fragrance guide her, floating on a breeze, drifting among the leaves, listening to the whispers of the sun, wind, and dew. The scent of pomelo carried her into her childhood dreams...

In her teenage years, the first time she ever felt her heart flutter was when a boy from the edge of the village gave her a bouquet of pomelo flowers on the very day she returned to school in the city. The bouquet, wrapped awkwardly in white paper, smelled of pomelo, and had a note written hastily: “For you, I picked them secretly from my mother’s tree!” She laughed out loud after reading it, but something stirred within her.

When she went to university, the first spring away from home, the pomelo flowers no longer stirred her. She sent eleven letters, but the boy never replied. That year, spring felt distant, and March became a month that slipped further and further away.

She married and moved far away. One weekend, she returned home during the spring season. The scent of pomelo leaves mingled with that of herbal shampoo, filling the air. Her father was washing her mother’s hair by the doorstep. Her mother’s hair, once thick and long, had thinned over the years, now showing more silver strands than black. She smiled, but quickly felt a pang of sadness.

As she entered the room, she stopped for a moment when the scent of pomelo filled her nostrils. It was the fragrance that pulled her back to the past, to her childhood...

Her childhood... Her youth... Her first year in university...

She lingered between reality and dreams, wondering why it took her so long to realize that the pomelo flowers were never to blame...

It was like an instinct. She began searching for the white pomelo flowers placed in a glass cup by her mother’s bedside. She suddenly understood, imagining the old man, hunched and frail, stretching to pluck the flowers to give to his wife, his heart full of joy yet tinged with sorrow.

The pomelo tree in the backyard grew taller every day, but her parents’ backs became more and more bent with time... In that instant, she realized that the romantic tales she once adored seemed so meaningless now. She thought of the long years when her parents had labored tirelessly for their children’s future. Only when the children had flown away could they sit together, combing each other’s hair, offering each other pomelo flowers, just like in the old days. But time waits for no one. Now, their eyesight was failing, their hands trembling as they exchanged small gestures of love...

Then, her mother fell ill. Feeling sorry for her father’s effort, she brought home bottles of Enchenter shampoo, but they remained untouched. Her father continued his ritual of gathering leaves and boiling them to wash her mother’s hair. She understood now. Her father was trying to preserve the memories of those green, fragrant locks that once made his heart flutter.

One day, while packing her mother’s clothes to take her to the hospital, she found a red wooden box where her mother kept her private “secrets”—letters from her father and postcards from his time in the Soviet Union. Curiously, she opened the box. Inside, she found neatly coiled strands of hair, both black and silver. She froze. It hit her—why hadn’t she noticed the absence of her mother’s hair in the bathroom or on the pillow? Had her father secretly gathered every strand, hoping to preserve them? To keep the memories alive? Or was it because he didn’t want her mother to discover the sorrow of losing her hair?

And then, the inevitable came. The last strand of hair fell from her mother’s head. She bought her mother a soft fabric hat to wear, snapping a photo of her smiling and saying, “Look, Mom, you look so pretty in this hat!” Her mother smiled, but tears welled up in her eyes. She understood now that the family’s attempts to hide the truth from her mother had been in vain...

But her father didn’t let go. He sat beside her mother’s bed, gently rubbing dried pomelo peel on her bald head, as if following a long-standing routine. She wanted to stop him but couldn’t find the words. It was something he had done with devotion for so many years, with tender care. She could only watch, her heart aching.

And she realized she had been wrong. Just a month later, new strands of hair began to grow on her mother’s head, black and white, to the surprise of her siblings and the joy of their father. She understood now, seeing her father gather every stray hair from around the house, tying them together carefully, brushing them smooth before placing them in the wooden box—the same box he had given her mother when he went to study in the Soviet Union. It was a box for their most sacred mementos.

That spring, the pomelo flowers continued to release their intoxicating fragrance beside her mother’s bed, whispering softly next to her pillow, in the glass cup that shone like crystal. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, and felt her heart tighten as she thought about the springs to come...

March.

Dương Châu Giang

I don’t know when I started to love the scent of milk flowers so much. It’s a fragrance that many people in Hanoi say is faintly pleasant at first, but up close, it becomes overwhelmingly strong and quite unpleasant.

My family lived in a small town about two hours away from Hanoi by car. I had visited the city many times during the summer holidays, but I had never experienced a Hanoi autumn until later.

During my first years at university, I studied in the city and often hummed the song "Hoa Sữa" by the composer Hồng Đăng, but I still hadn’t encountered the real scent of these flowers.

In my third year, I took up a tutoring job for a family with two sons in middle school. Every evening, as I arrived at their house, I would smell a pleasant fragrance in the air, but I didn’t know which flower it came from. A few days later, I asked the housekeeper, and she told me it was the scent of milk flowers planted right in front of the gate. I looked out and saw a large tree with lush leaves, its branches heavy with small white flowers, the color of milk drops. I thought, 'So this is the scent of milk flowers, no wonder there's even a famous song about them.'

That autumn, I also met him. He was the cousin of a classmate, but he worked in Hanoi.

Back then, he was pursuing me, so he would often visit home on weekends. On Saturday evenings, he would pick me up after my tutoring sessions. He would wait for me under the milk flower tree, sitting on his old motorcycle. We would ride together, chatting as we went. The smell of the milk flowers would drift in the breeze, accompanying us on the way back to my dormitory. It wasn’t very late, so we didn’t wander around, just enjoyed each other’s company on that peaceful ride.

One time, for my birthday, he asked me:

- What’s your favorite flower?

I blurted out without thinking:

- My favorite flower is the milk flower.

He looked surprised and said:

- But nobody gives milk flowers for a birthday.

I answered playfully:

- I didn’t say I wanted milk flowers for my birthday. I just said it’s my favorite.

So, for my birthday that year, he gave me a bouquet of roses.

After graduation, I moved to Hanoi to look for work. That was the first time I got to experience a Hanoi autumn and enjoy the "specialty" of the city—the scent of milk flowers.

I stayed at my cousin’s house, and right at the end of the alley, there was a large milk flower tree. I remember moving in at the end of September. At that time, the flowers were still tiny, and the fragrance was light and barely noticeable. In the evenings, I would open the second-floor window to inhale the delicate scent. As the weather grew cooler, the fragrance of the flowers became stronger, more intense. Indeed, the scent could be a bit overwhelming if it was too strong. My cousin would often say that the fragrance of milk flowers was pleasant when it was faint, but too overpowering could make it sharp and unpleasant.

During the first few years I lived in Hanoi, there were still many milk flowers along streets like Nguyễn Chí Thanh, Quán Thánh, and Quang Trung. On weekends, he would take me there. He once teased me, saying, "When you have a daughter, you should name her Hoa Sữa (Milk Flower)."

But then, our relationship didn’t last because he had to move for work in the central region. Eventually, due to the distance, we lost touch with each other.

Now, milk flowers are no longer as common on the streets of Hanoi. I rarely catch a whiff of their fragrance anymore. But I still love them just as much as I did before. So every now and then, on a cool autumn evening, I find myself wandering down a street where the scent of milk flowers fills the air. Those old memories of being a student come flooding back. I haven’t seen him in years, and I wonder if he still remembers the girl who once loved the scent of milk flowers so much.

Mộc An Nhiên

March fades away, and April drifts in slowly under sunlight as clear as glass. The rays spill like golden honey across the brown tiled roofs, shimmering in the steady, quiet rain that lingers from the old season. The moss-covered walls dry out, and the paint shines anew under the early season’s warmth.

As April comes, the quiet alley outside bursts into color with bougainvillea blossoms, fluttering in the wind, while petals fall like confetti on the ground. In the garden, tiny purple eggplant flowers smile up at the sun, and vibrant butterflies flit eagerly from flower to flower, gathering nectar. Young green climbers of the thiên lý vine scramble up trellises, their yellow lantern-like flowers shyly peeking from beneath heart-shaped leaves.

April arrives with a wave of nostalgia, reminding me of carefree days spent at home with my parents in the village. My mother worked tirelessly on the rice fields from dawn till dusk, while the baskets of vegetables she carried swayed heavily, making her stagger under the afternoon sun. My father, unconcerned by the scorching midday heat, worked high on the roof, securing safety nets. They only wished that the hardships would yield earnings, soaked in sweat and tears, so their children could have a brighter future.

April brings the promise of simpler meals before the harvest season: boiled vegetables with fish sauce, slightly bruised tomatoes, and eggs stir-fried with fragrant herbs—humble yet brimming with familial love. The evenings, bathed in the soft golden glow of the moonlight, filled our home with warmth as we shared stories and laughter over simple dinners.

April is also the time when children run wild in the yard, their laughter echoing down the street. My mother prepares mung beans for making bánh khúc, a traditional snack for the morning market. My father brews fragrant tea, savoring the peaceful moments after a long day. My older sister sits by the window, lost in thought, dreaming of something far away.

Now, April pulls me into the harsh realities of life—struggling with work, money, and the overwhelming pace of modern existence. At times, I feel like a tree battered by storm winds, trying to survive the chaos of daily life. But in those fleeting moments of quiet transition, I pause and reflect on the passage of time.

There were Aprils long past, where I woke to the fragrance of flowers drifting in through the open window, birds singing cheerfully outside, and sunlight pouring in, making my heart light and my spirit at ease. In those days, my heart swelled with a deep, unspoken love for life.

April always returns, full of longing. Sometimes, I wish I could turn back time, hop on a round-trip ticket to relive those vibrant summer days.

Cô Thắm

February in Hanoi brings a rare, serene stillness to the air. The sky is veiled in a delicate spring mist, the rain softly kissing the petals and blades of grass. It plays gently on the lashes and loose hair of a passerby. Just a whisper, yet enough to dampen the thin shoulders of a loved one. In the quiet of the night, the rain seems to stir up forgotten memories.

On some weekend days, the streets of Hanoi feel eerily empty, as if the fast pace of life is slowing down. In an old café, the sound of coffee dripping softly blends with the distant music, carrying our thoughts away. The lyrics of the song linger and fade, evoking reflections on the passage of time: 'Which age is marked by the faint sadness of a fragile body? Which age leaves the imprint of sparrows on the sky? Let me keep my hands warm, and let loneliness fade away with age.' It’s true, everyone reaches a point where they face the inevitable marks left by time on their eyes, lips, and hair.

Time waits for no one; when one season of flowers fades, another is sure to follow. After the full moon of the first lunar month, when the peach blossoms have withered, Hanoi's people turn to play with pear blossoms to extend the spirit of spring indoors. The pear branches, with their gnarled trunks and bright green buds, bloom alongside delicate flowers and buds imported from the northern mountain regions. The older and more mature the tree, the more beautiful and long-lasting the flowers. The purity of the white pear blossoms, contrasting with the vibrancy of the peach, brings a unique, refined elegance to the homes of Hanoi’s residents. It makes me realize how life changes with the cyclical nature of the seasons.

February holds a special place for those born under the Aquarius sign. There seems to be something uniquely similar about them. People born in February are often intelligent, with a deep and holistic view of the world. Having a friend born in February is a treasure because they truly value the relationships that come into their lives. Interestingly, Aquarians also have a magnetic charm that draws others in. Their biggest flaw, however, is their inability to forget past hurts, though they often hide their emotions. So, never be the one to hurt them. Life is full of changes, and sometimes even deep love can fade away. Everything transforms over time.

Time passes like the wind, and some connections only come once in a lifetime. Sometimes we let go of our kindred spirits without realizing it, and a moment’s hesitation turns them into strangers. Perhaps it is only when we taste the bitterness of life that we truly begin to appreciate the sweetness of genuine love. The mysterious nature of fate prevents us from predicting what will stay and what will go. So, if the bond has ended, let go of the sadness and let it drift away like water under the bridge. Learning to forget the old days is also a way to live peacefully.

In February, the spring rain falls, and the purple flowers of the longan tree fall in and out of the wind. The scent of grapefruit blossoms drifts through the air, and suddenly, nostalgia fills the heart, sending it adrift.

Vy Anh

March comes with every hue of bloom, but I cannot forget the deep purple shade. It’s the purple of the late blossom of the flowering tree in the yard, its petals trembling before they fall and scatter in the wind. The tiny petals spin with the breeze, unbothered as they rest on the earth below. It’s the purple of the tamarind tree flowers, wild and proud, dancing with the wind. For some reason, whenever I see these purple flowers, a deep longing stirs within me—a longing for days gone by, for a sky full of memories.

Oh, March!

March always brings me back to March 8th. My family, like many others in the village back then, knew the hunger of March all too well. By the time the last grain of rice had been spent after the Lunar New Year, the nights were filled with the rustle of rats running through the empty rice storage. My mother, a student at a university in Hanoi, had to return to the countryside after a sickness and became tied to the fields. My father, a high school teacher, earned his salary in rice, noodles, and maize. When rice was scarce, my mother would carry her goods to distant markets to trade. Her wares were bundles of limes and betel leaves... I often worried about her as she carried the betel to the market.

When my father would climb the ladder to the betel vine trellis, it would sway under his weight, and I would call out, 'Dad, be careful!' He would calmly respond, 'It’s good that you care, but there’s no need to worry, I’m fine.' My anxiety didn’t fade until he safely descended the last step. I would worry when my mother was late returning from the market. She would go to a distant market, five kilometers away, called Lường Market. I didn’t even know where it was, but I knew it was far. There, she would trade betel leaves for rice to cook our meals. In those days, rice itself was the most precious gift, but there was never enough. We had to ration the rice carefully, saving some for the next meal.

March 8th always brings back the bittersweet memory of a story from the family of my father’s colleague, who also lived nearby. At their dinner table, every member received their portion of rice. The youngest child, after finishing his portion, still wanted more. The mother, embarrassed but kind, gently told him, 'There’s no more, but I’ll give you some later.' The child, tears in his eyes, pointed to his father’s bowl and said, 'But there’s still rice in daddy’s bowl!' Now, that boy has grown up, with a home, a car, a good job, but no opportunity to invite his father to a feast. How I miss those days of March!

March... the month of sacred motherhood!

There was a day in March dedicated to mothers, but back then, I never had any gifts to give to my beloved mother. Perhaps she didn’t remember the day either. I remember one March, sitting by the oil lamp studying, when the mosquitoes buzzed and occasionally bit me, causing both pain and itching. It was then that my mother was cooking a large pot of pig feed over an open fire, the flames crackling and the wood popping.

When my stomach growled with hunger, I heard my mother call out:

- 'Come here, take a break from your studies and come down, I have something for you.'

- 'What is it, mom?' I asked.

- 'It’s a gift for you.'

I was surprised, unsure what she meant by a gift. She hadn’t brought anything back from the market, and it was so late at night. I hurried downstairs.

- 'Sit down here, my child.'

I waited... Then, my mother handed me a gift.

I still vividly remember the scene—my mother, torn between wanting to ease my hunger and feeling embarrassed. The gift she gave me was cornmeal, sifted fine and smooth, mixed with a little water and salt to form a thick paste. She wrapped it in fresh banana leaves and roasted it. That was the first time I tasted this special treat.

Now, I wonder whether it was the smell of corn or the love of a mother that filled the air. The sweetness of that gift is unmatched by any expensive dish. Mom, that gift has stayed with me throughout my life.

Now I call that gift 'The Sacred Gift of a Mother.'

March is here again. Soon, it will be Mother’s Day. I will return to you, mom. March, with its purple longan blossoms, the pure white grapefruit flowers, and the sweet fragrance of chestnut flowers. The bees still hum in the fields, and I will again remember the March of old. Everything changes, but the memories of March will remain forever.

March arrives with a tender longing for the past!

Xoan Vương