Buzz
1. Elderflower Water for Year-End Bath
2. Haircut on the Eve of the New Year
On the 23rd of December, as we send off the Kitchen Gods, students are given a two-week break for the New Year. My mother gave me money, instructing me to go get a haircut the next day in preparation for the holiday. My grandmother added, 'Tell the barber to cut it high so you won't need to go back until after the New Year.'
She said this because she believed that hair is an essential part of a person, a gift from one's parents. She always reminded me that one should not cut hair during the full moon, the first day of the new year, or throughout January, as it was considered bad luck!
As the New Year approached, all my friends in the neighborhood rushed to the barbershop to show off their new haircuts. Some, however, were too lazy or stingy to go to the shop and waited for the traveling barbers to pass by, offering cheaper rates. Each time, we'd crowd together, waiting our turn, and the barber would rush through, giving us quick, uneven cuts that left our hair looking like mangled coconuts.
In our town, there were only two barbershops—one run by a war veteran with one leg near the bus station, and another by an old man close to the market alley. The young barber was friendly and chatty, though not as skilled as the one in the short story 'The Barber on Bà Triệu Street' by Ngô Phan Lưu. The young man’s stories were just simple, small talk suitable for children like me. I watched him as he maneuvered his crutches while cutting hair, with a pant leg tied awkwardly, which made me uneasy. He also had the unpleasant habit of spitting on the floor, which I found unappealing. I only went to him a few times when the old man’s shop was closed.
In contrast, the elderly barber was quiet, speaking only when necessary, and listening to customers’ endless chatter. Occasionally, he would add a few remarks with a warm smile. He was a tall, muscular man from the coastal area who had moved to our town and opened a small barbershop to make a living.
During the New Year, his shop was always full, with middle-aged men waiting their turn. I would sit on the bench, listening to adult conversations: gossip about the harvest, love triangles, and the Tết truce. Eventually, the talk would circle back to the question of when peace would return, followed by long sighs.
When I finally sat in the barber’s chair, the market outside was winding down. Looking into the faded mirror, I saw the bustle of the street, the people’s weary faces, and the mix of patience and joy as they prepared for the new year.
As a carefree child, I was delighted to have my hair attended to, just as I cared for the marigold flowers at home to beautify our Tết celebrations. At that moment, the rhythmic sounds of the scissors and clippers seemed to carry me away, as I imagined the upcoming Tết festivities with friends in the neighborhood. The worries and troubles of the adults felt distant, like a fleeting breeze.
Cut for me, cut for me
Silver strands, golden strands, strands of money, strands of rice
Strands of shame, worry, pain, and disappointment
Strands of betrayal and blindness, strands of wild obsession
Strands flowing down my father's cheeks
Strands crossing my mother's forehead…
Years later, after reading the poem 'Haircut for Tết' by Nguyên Sa, I recalled the humble barbershop in my hometown. After returning from years away, I found no trace of it. I wonder whether the barber returned home after the war or passed away from old age.
Having lived in Saigon for almost 50 years, I continued to get my hair cut at a simple barbershop run by a fellow townsman. Even though the shop relocated a few times, his son has now taken over the business, and I remain a loyal customer. I can’t remember how many times I’ve had my hair cut, but each time feels like a moment of reflection—looking into the mirror, thinking about life’s endless trivialities. Every New Year's haircut is a time for me to 'review' my appearance, to listen to the fading years, and comfort myself with the thought that 'life will bring luck, and life will bring beauty.'
Sometimes, my friends would invite me to try a high-end air-conditioned barbershop, just for the experience, but I realized that I still prefer the simplicity of my old ways. I’m no longer at an age to seek change and novelty. As poet Vũ Trọng Quang once wrote: 'Each haircut is like becoming a new person.' But for me, every haircut is an opportunity to return to myself—the child who sat in the barber's chair in the market alley on New Year's Eve.
Huỳnh Như Phương
3. Reflections on... New Year's Eve
As the Lunar year comes to a close, from the day we send the Kitchen God back to the heavens until the 30th of Tết, no matter how busy you are, it's hard to turn down the New Year's Eve parties hosted by family, friends, or even your superiors. You tell yourself: Avoid as much as possible, to keep your stomach calm for the new year. But who can resist?
This year, the earliest New Year's Eve party I was invited to was at the house of a friend who runs a real estate business. The real estate market isn't frozen. His small company buys and sells a few plots of land daily, each earning tens of millions. But after the 20th of December, who would be foolish enough to sell land, as buyers would assume the seller is in financial trouble and push prices down! Plus, no one buys property during the last days of the year! So, my friend decided to throw a New Year's Eve party. About thirty people gathered. With the bird flu spreading, he chose only fresh seafood and a roasted suckling pig as the main dishes. Little eating, but lots of drinking. From noon to almost evening, we finished several bottles of old gold liquor and about ten crates of beer. The alcohol loosened tongues, and the host monopolized the conversation, boasting about his real estate skills. For instance, a resettlement household was assigned a plot of land facing west or north, not ideal for their age, so they came to his real estate service to sell. He helped, of course, at a reasonable price. But when a buyer appeared, the same plot was now a south-east or south-facing plot, priced significantly higher! He bragged about his connections with project management departments, where for a little tip, he could change any plot’s orientation. People have to eat rice, others eat porridge. That's life. From this party, I gained insight into a corner of the hustle for survival!
From the 25th of December onwards, the New Year's Eve parties reached their peak. Some days, there were several. The guests had to rush like singers on a tour. But even the most successful could only manage a few parties before the day ended, and they were already tipsy and racing to get home. At eleven in the morning, I was at the neighborhood chief’s house – a hard invitation to refuse due to neighborly ties. After a few bites, some small talk, and a few rounds of “one hundred percent,” my phone rang. A childhood friend from elementary school urged me to hurry. His house, dealing with scrap metal like bolts, steel pipes, and expensive stainless steel, was a place where you couldn’t show up late. “You’re late? Just say hello to the table. The host and guests have already started the fourth round, so take your four rounds, and don’t keep them waiting!” I had just picked up a snack when I was stopped: “Eat later, we have guests!” So, the drinking continued. After greeting the table, my father-in-law called: “What’s taking so long?” It was too sweet to say no! I had to excuse myself, only to be scolded by my friend. But my father-in-law insisted, I had to go...
My father-in-law owned a restaurant. But what was more troubling was my brother-in-laws, uncles, and cousins-in-law, all red-faced from drinking. “Cheers, brother-in-law! Cheers, son-in-law! Cheers, uncle!” In my mind, I thought: “Oh no, why is there so many people at your place!”
Luckily, later that evening, my father-in-law kindly called a taxi to take me home!
But there was one New Year’s Eve I’ll never forget. On the 26th of December, my boss’s wife picked a good day and asked him to invite a few subordinates and friends to a pre-Tết gathering. This year, I couldn’t go to the boss’s house during Tết, so I went before. The boss, a construction company director, had subordinates from all his construction sites, project managers, and suppliers. Since it’s an everyday routine for them to deal with construction, the drinking was... on another level! My boss’s friends were all partners from A-side, fellow directors, material suppliers, and bankers. I was just an office guy, new to the team. After a few rounds, the boss ordered his subordinates to toast with guests. “First time meeting? Let’s toast!” “You’re just office staff, huh! Don’t you want to show some brotherhood? Let’s drink to solidarity!” I just kept raising my glass and putting it down. Then the boss asked: “Are you part of Pham Van Mach’s bodybuilding team?” So, I was punished with another round... A bank client left half a glass untouched, but was still called out: “What, haven’t closed your year-end accounts yet?” So, he drank it all. The New Year’s Eve at the boss’s house lasted until late. Most of the guests were drunk, stumbling and mixing up their shoes. The next day, they were out searching to swap them back...
My friends who play badminton and tennis also held New Year’s Eve gatherings on their last games of the year. Each court had a tray of fruit, a vase, sticky rice, and boiled pork, due to the bird flu. They offered proper prayers. “Pray for the court gods to bless us with continuous victories, no broken arms or sprained spines!” Last year, someone joked: “If the court gods are real, bless us with some broken rackets!” That year, only one court had four rackets broken. So, everyone claimed the court gods were really effective. This year, they prayed even more earnestly. After the prayer, a banquet was set at a nearby restaurant. The court manager summarized the year’s achievements and made a public financial report. It turns out, the costs for rackets, shuttlecocks, and court rentals were nothing compared to the drinking costs. The group passed a resolution to reduce drinking next year for the sake of sports. Everyone agreed. But just one hour later, the resolution was forgotten. They resumed toasting to the new year and happy new... beers everywhere.
This year, a new character appeared in our sports circle. He didn’t come to play sports but to visit friends after being away for nearly twenty years. He invited us to his New Year’s Eve on the 29th of December. That night, his wife and kids were sitting by the rice cake pot, stoking the fire and changing the water, breathing in the smoky air just like he did when he was younger. The adults sat around the table, chatting and enjoying the sacred moments of the year’s end. Tuan, my Vietnamese friend, said: “Being away from home, you miss Tết because work overwhelms you. On the first day of Tết, we sit together, wish each other well, open the bánh chưng, eat pickled onions we bought at the supermarket, reminisce about the old Tết back home, and tears well up. Then, we return to work. Friends far away only call to wish each other well, no visits like at home. It’s really lonely...”
I sat down to write this story about New Year’s Eve, with all the different colors and flavors of a tradition deeply ingrained in Vietnamese culture. New Year’s Eve is a good custom. People reflect on the 365 days of hard work, meet neighbors and friends, wish each other health and success, and drink a few toasts. But not everyone can do it. Sometimes, too much fun loses its meaning and harms health. As I recall all the New Year’s Eve parties I’ve attended, I remind myself to be cautious. But please forgive me, because I have to stop here: Another call just came in inviting me to a New Year’s Eve party! I can’t miss it. The caller is a friend who was just inducted into the Vietnam Writers’ Association: writer Tran Ky Trung from Hoi An. Trung is hosting a New Year’s Eve and celebrating his new success, and surely, more drinking will follow...
Truong Dien Thang
4. Family Meals
Today, amidst the fast-paced hustle of city life, my small family is gradually losing those warm family dinners we once shared.
With both parents working, the kids going to school and extracurricular classes, we can't help but accept hurried meals, often eating at different times. And sometimes, I find myself nostalgically longing for the hearty family meals we used to have back in the countryside.
Back then, my extended family included three generations: my grandparents, my parents, my siblings, and even my aunt who, in her thirties, still hadn't married. Despite the large number of people, we all knew how to respect each other and manage tasks smoothly.
Typically, at meal times, all family members would gather around the table. Sometimes, the food was simple, but the joy and happiness were abundant. My parents would serve my grandparents the best dishes, followed by me – the youngest and most pampered child in the house.
At the dinner table, we'd share stories, with my grandfather often reminding us: “At the table, no shouting or scolding – let's keep the meal peaceful and enjoyable.”
And so, I grew up around the family table. I remember one time, during a meal, my grandfather looked at my older brother for a while and said: “Thuận is 22 now, he’s grown up, it’s time we find him a wife…”.
My grandfather always hoped that the fourth generation would also be born and raised in this family. Everyone turned their attention to my older brother, who blushed and replied: “I’m still so young, Grandpa! Don’t worry about me… you should worry about Auntie!”
Before my grandfather could answer, my grandmother interrupted: “Enough, enough! Don’t mention Auntie’s stubbornness! She’s in her thirties and still refuses to get married. She rejects all suitors – they’re either too tall, too short, too fat, too thin... oh, it’s endless! Talking about her makes me sad!” Hearing my grandmother complain about Auntie’s reluctance to marry, she just smiled and shot a glance at my brother, silently warning him: “Watch out, you’re next!”
There were also very special meals – like when we had rice during the harvest season. At that time, my grandparents would stay home while I asked my aunt if I could join her to bring lunch to the fields. We walked across several narrow paths until we reached our destination.
We laid out the meal in a makeshift hut made of straw and sat on the soft straw floor, breathing in the fresh scent of newly harvested rice. The rice from the harvest season, served with coconut milk and drenched in sweat, tasted unexpectedly delicious.
On New Year's Eve, my grandfather would wear his traditional áo dài and tie, performing a respectful ritual in front of the ancestor’s altar. Afterward, the whole family would gather for the year-end dinner.
Outside, the apricot flowers were just beginning to bloom, their yellow petals standing out brightly. Around the reunion table, everyone was smiling, but I believe my grandparents were the happiest, with their distant children – Aunt Ba, Aunt Tư, and even my Uncle Năm – all present.
My older brother, looking all grown up in his newly tailored Western suit, had the appearance of a mature man. My grandfather walked over, patted his head, and said: “Next year, you should get married, so I can have a grandchild to carry in my arms, alright?” My brother blushed and laughed nervously.
Now, my grandparents are no longer with us. And I, due to life’s circumstances, have gradually lost those precious family meals, even within my own small family.
Every now and then, I tell my children about the family meals of old, where three or four generations lived together under one roof. They listen with confusion, as though the story is from another world.
They’re from a new generation, probably with a different mindset. For example, they seem to prefer their own private lives when they reach adulthood, just like people in faraway Western countries. This makes me feel sad.
Tonight, my wife is working overtime, my daughter is taking an extra language class, and my son is attending a friend’s birthday party. Once again, I’m eating alone, with a lonely meal before me.
My heart longs for those family dinners from my childhood – with my grandparents, parents, siblings, and even my Auntie, who was in her thirties and still not married. Oh, how special and sacred those family meals were!
NGUYỄN LINH
5. From a Single Flower
I often find myself nostalgic for the past. The memories that linger in my mind are often those I consider beautiful.
They are beautiful, perhaps because they will never return, as life continuously moves forward, always heading toward what is ahead.
This New Year, in the Central Highlands where I live, it suddenly started to rain. It was just a light rain, soft and quiet, in the chilly air reminiscent of the cold, pre-Tet weather of the North. Tet is usually during the dry season, a time when the sun blazes and the wind blows, drying the earth and plants. For the first time in decades, the basalt soil saw an off-season rain like this.
From my window, I gazed at the delicate peach blossoms trembling in the rain, their pale pink petals swaying gently. It made me reflect deeply on past Tet celebrations. Everything had been prepared, with only the small peach branch to be placed in the ceramic vase on the table to mark Tet’s arrival. Nearly 30 years away from home, I still remember that small peach branch on the eve of Tet, and the longing has never faded.
Our childhood Tet celebrations were always spent with my mother. My father, a soldier stationed in the South, often couldn’t make it back for Tet due to the demands of his service. At that time, travel was difficult, and he would save up leave days for a visit every few years. Therefore, in my memory, he was always absent during Tet. My mother, despite her hard work in the fields, always made sure that we had warm, loving Tet holidays, compensating for the absence of my father.
The most exciting part was the last market of the year, because I would always go with my mother. She would tie up a pair of young roosters, carefully place them in a basket, and take them to the market. Those roosters would be traded for new clothes, new sandals, and childhood treats that we could only dream of the rest of the year.
The market was crowded with people, colors blending together, sounds mixing in the air. I held my mother’s hand tightly, moving through the throng of vendors and buyers, while holding a colorful toy in the other hand, a gift for my siblings during Tet. The toys, made from rice flour and colored with natural flowers, only appeared at the market during the New Year’s shopping spree, which made them even more special to my sisters and me.
The last days of the lunar year were hectic, with farming still in progress. During good weather, we had to rush to finish planting. We cleaned and tidied the house, each of us taking on a task. The final job was cleaning the ancestral altar and preparing the five-fruit tray. My mother had prepared a special wine with cinnamon and star anise, and on New Year's Eve, she would use a clean cloth soaked in the wine to cleanse the altar, filling the air with the fragrant scents of cinnamon and anise, which would remain with me throughout my life.
The five-fruit tray was made from fruits grown in our garden, including two bunches of bananas, a ripe pomelo, some sapodillas, a few eggs, and small, bright tomatoes. In front of our house was a peach tree, its trunk small but covered in moss, with many branches and beautiful flowers. While the Southern spring was marked by the blossoming of apricot flowers, for us Northern children, the sight of peach blossoms was the true herald of spring’s arrival.
On the eve of Tet, I would cut a tiny branch of peach blossoms and place it in a small vase on the altar, alongside the five-fruit tray, as my mother also prepared the steamed sticky rice cakes and the annual family dinner for our ancestors. The New Year’s Eve dinner, held in the cold air, with light spring rain tapping gently on the flowers, was a cherished memory. It was a time when the scent of burnt leaves mixed with incense, and I would always wish that my father could unexpectedly return home.
On the morning of the first day of the New Year, my sisters and I would wear our new clothes, freshly ironed with starch, and go to visit our paternal grandparents. I often accompanied my grandmother to the temple, where her world seemed full of mysteries. Despite working the fields all year, she transformed during Tet, dressed in her pink robe and spinning in sacred dances. I, a curious child, would watch in awe and wonder, before following her back to reality—the muddy, hardworking life in the fields.
Now, Tet doesn’t feel as exciting as it once did. Is it because I am no longer a child, or is it simply the change in time? People debate about Tet these days. Some say we should abandon the traditional Tet and only celebrate the Gregorian New Year for simplicity, saving money and avoiding the hassle; others advocate for a simplified Tet, using the time off for travel and exploration. There are many opinions about Tet then and now, with each person defending their view.
For me, Tet remains a special time. After a long, tiring year of work and responsibilities, I still long for the days when the family gathers to wrap sticky rice cakes, clean the house, decorate for Tet, and prepare everything. The most cherished part is the final meal of the year, when the whole family gathers, and we feel the sacred warmth of family togetherness. Perhaps, more than anything, it is because of those old New Year’s dinners, where my mother and I, though we never spoke of it, shared an unspoken yearning for someone who was always absent.
Nearly 30 years away from home, my heart never stops missing that small peach branch with its tender blossoms gently swaying in the spring rain. Out there, spring is almost here, so close that I could almost touch it, like the touch of a flower gently swaying in memory. I realize that what I long for most is the warm, familial atmosphere of togetherness...
DAO AN DUYEN
6. Writing for the Last Afternoon of the Year…
The last afternoons of the year mark the end of another cycle. We can only hope that as one year closes, a new one filled with better fortunes and brighter moments will open.
Whether quiet or lively, the year is coming to an end. 365 days have passed, filled with the full spectrum of life's flavors—joy, sorrow, success, failure, hope, and despair…
People await the last day of the year like a brief pause between the old year and the new, a time to reflect on what has been.
On the last afternoon of the year…
There are the late deliveries rushing to finish quickly so they can return home to prepare for the holiday…
There are the late-night buses bringing children back home to reunite with family…
There are the hurried shoppers grabbing the last essentials to ensure a complete family celebration…
There is the family meal, a gathering of relatives and friends around the table…
It is a time for everyone to sit together and talk about the events of the past year, to reflect on what they have achieved and what was left undone, to acknowledge what they gained and what they lost…
It is a moment for each person to pause and, amidst the rush of the past year, take a few minutes to reflect on themselves and their lives… and then look forward to what lies ahead.
On these quiet afternoons, people are often more willing to forgive the mistakes of the past year; they nod in agreement to forget misfortunes and troubles, and look toward a new year full of peace and happiness.
The last afternoons of the year carry a hint of sadness, perhaps the earth and sky themselves wish to hold onto the past a little longer. Or perhaps, despite the eagerness for a fresh start in the new year, people cannot help but feel a sense of nostalgia for the 365 days that are slipping away – days that, whether sweet or bitter, cannot be relived.
On the last afternoons of the year, my heart goes out to those far from home, longing for a family meal together; to those yearning for a holiday in their hometown from a distant place; to those working late in trade, hoping to have a brief respite to enjoy the fleeting moments of the holiday…
As the year’s cycle draws to a close, we wish for a better one ahead, filled with goodness and fortune.
I wish for peace and serenity in the coming year…
I wish for fewer worries to crease the faces of my loved ones, may they enjoy health and forget sickness…
I wish for joy to follow each person, leaving sorrow and despair behind…
I wish for smiles to be ever-present, leaving tears and pain behind…
I wish for luck to accompany us on the path ahead…
I wish that the next 365 days will be lived without regret…
I wish that the new year will bring everything people desire…
Goodbye, old year. Farewell, the last afternoon of the year!
Lạc Hi
7. The Last Meal of the Year
The old year is about to pass. A new year is approaching, and soon, the dinner table for the last evening of the year will be set. My grandmother used to say: "Celebrating the New Year away from home is so lonely, you miss your family and your roots, even though there might be no shortage of money or possessions. Home and family are where you return to during holidays and special occasions...".
Yes, on the 30th of the lunar year, our house, like many others in the countryside, was always busy. We had to shop for the holiday, wrap sticky rice cakes, slaughter the chicken, butcher the pig... and still find time to prepare the family dinner to welcome our ancestors for the Tết celebration.
For children, Tết was the most exciting time, as it meant no school, good food, new clothes, fun outings, and receiving lucky money from the elders. Our family was very poor, usually struggling with food shortages during the harvest gap, so the few days of Tết were the only time we could truly eat our fill. The last meal of the year was the first meal in days that we could sit together, enjoy delicious food, and feel satisfied. I used to eagerly wait for it, sometimes asking my mother a week before Tết what we would cook for that dinner, and whether my older sister would be able to come home in time.
They say the best meal of Tết is the last dinner of the year. My mother knew we were all excited because we were growing kids, so she always asked my father to prepare a big feast with many dishes, so we could enjoy ourselves. There would be chicken, spring rolls, bamboo shoot soup with fish balls, pork... and a variety of stir-fried vegetables. After we made offerings to our ancestors, the food would be brought down from the altar. When the family gathered around the warm table, my mother would always tell us to eat freely, since it was Tết and we didn't have to worry about saving. We would dig in without the usual restraint, unlike other days when we had to save food for guests. There were times when my younger brother would eat so much rice that my mother would remind him: "Cu Ty, eat the other dishes, don't just fill up on rice or you won't be able to eat the good stuff!".
Although there was plenty of food, I noticed that my parents seemed to always let us eat first. Seeing this, I would serve them food. My mother would quickly praise me: "Hai is such a good son! Go ahead, eat! There’s plenty of food today, we don’t have to save or eat sparingly. All year we were hungry, so I’m making sure you all get enough during Tết...".
One year, my older sister was working far in the south, and due to a missed train, she couldn’t make it home in time for the last meal of the year. That year, our dinner felt incomplete. My parents were sad for her, and the atmosphere was much quieter. My siblings and I didn’t enjoy the meal as much, feeling her absence. After dinner, while we were drinking tea, my mother sighed: "Your sister worked so hard all year, and she can’t even join us for the last meal of the year!". Back then, there were no mobile phones, so we didn’t even know where she was. She didn’t arrive home until the early morning of the first day of Tết, tearfully reunited with us...
When we were young and had never been away from home, we couldn’t fully understand the importance and meaning of gathering together for the last meal of the year. My grandmother’s words became clearer as I grew older: "Celebrating the New Year away from home is so lonely, you miss your family and your roots, even though there might be no shortage of money or possessions. Home and family are where you return to during holidays and special occasions...". As I got older, I began to understand the wisdom in her words. No matter where life takes you, during Tết, people rush to return to their families, to their hometowns, to reunite, and celebrate the New Year together. The last meal of the year is a sacred moment for everyone, as it marks the final gathering of the old year, reflecting on the struggles, joys, and hardships before moving on to a hopeful new year.
I have never had to celebrate Tết without my parents, and I have never missed the family dinner on the 30th of the lunar year, since my family lives nearby. However, many of my friends have experienced celebrating Tết without their families, and I know that their hearts must be heavy with longing. I can imagine them missing the warmth of home, the smell of food mingling with the thin, warm smoke rising from a simple kitchen, a memory of comfort. Some have even wished, "If only on the 30th of Tết, I could be with my parents, surrounded by family, with a simple meal of tofu, fish sauce, pickled vegetables, and rice... that would be enough!". However, such small wishes are often hard to fulfill due to various circumstances...
The old year is almost over, and the new year is approaching, with the dinner table for the last meal of the year soon to be set. For every family, no one wants to be far from home, because the true joy of Tết is found in the complete reunion of family members, all gathered around the table.
NGUYỄN LONG
8. Reflecting on the Last Day of the Year
When the weather is still cold but the winds no longer howl through the streets, when the mist still lingers on the branches and leaves but the air feels warmer, that's when the year comes to a close and the Tet holiday approaches.
Only when you've been far away do you realize how much you miss the Tet flavors. The rich aroma of freshly made Banh Chung still steaming hot. The sweet smell of the homemade candied fruits. The fragrance of the pot of herbal broth filling the air, making your heart ache with nostalgia on the last afternoon of the year. The smell of pickled onions and leeks on the Tet feast. The scent of sticky rice with red gac gently floating in the sacred moment of welcoming the new year. These familiar smells stir something deep within, reminding those far from home to return. “Go home for Tet” sounds so simple, yet it carries such deep significance.
It seems that at the end of the year, all worries and burdens are lifted. People speak more, laugh more, to savor the moments filled with peace and love. The last days of the year always have this feeling of time swaying. The hours seem to stretch, yet there’s a sense of hesitation, as though time itself is reluctant to pass. Looking at the final page of the calendar hanging on the wall, you hesitate to tear it off, fearing time will slip away too quickly, taking with it the memories of the old year. It feels as though Tet wouldn't be complete without returning home. It seems so personal, yet so universal. Tired, yet eyes sparkling with joy. The last day of the year is held in warm palms, inhaling the fresh air of the morning sun, the cool breeze gently swaying. You suddenly feel that the boundary between the old year and the new year is no longer there.
On the last day of the year, everyone yearns to return to their homeland. A place that, no matter how far you travel, you always long to find again. Several trips by car, by boat, a few walks through the fields, but people always return. They return to breathe in the earthy scent, tinged with the memory of a father’s footprints, mixed with the salty sweat of a mother. They return to receive a warm embrace from their father after a year of separation. They return to hear the soft, loving words of their mother after 360 days apart. There are countless reasons why people must return to reunite with family when the year ends. Going home for Tet is no longer just a matter of arriving or staying—it is a pilgrimage to one's roots. It is not just about emotions; it is about values, culture, and the enduring survival of a nation.
This time of year, whether you are near or far, at home or abroad, everyone tries to return to be with family. It’s to avoid feeling lost and lonely in the rush of life. Tet is every year. You go home for Tet every year. The time at home may only be a few days with loved ones, but you always want to return. Going home for Tet is to calm the heart, to stand by the ancestral graves on the last afternoon of the year. Lighting incense, standing in the open air, there’s a deep, distant whisper that feels like a message of faith and human kindness. Going home for Tet is about finding peace after months of wandering. Going home for Tet is to breathe in the familiar, unhurried atmosphere. To be welcomed by smiles, to hear sincere wishes, to gaze into familiar eyes shining with joy. Things that seem old, yet feel new again. It’s like celebrating Tet for the first time.
Then, the final days of the old year pass, carrying away failures and grievances with the passing time, drifting away like the wind to the ends of the earth. What remains is closeness, as though no distance had ever existed. These are the easiest days to awaken compassion and forgiveness before closing the chapter of the old year. The year that has passed might not have been perfect—there are love and kindness that were unintentionally left behind in the 365-day journey, unfinished plans. But now is the time to open your heart, to slow down and gather all the emotions as the cycle of time draws to a close.
Only a few hours remain before the new year begins. The winter cold is fading. The sky brightens with light. The last golden leaves will fall. Tiny new green leaves will sprout, releasing a fresh fragrance. A few swallows soar in the vast sky, their wings cutting through the air. The river flowing through the city looks greener. The once ordinary streets seem filled with a fluttering, nostalgic energy.
Don’t dwell on what you gained or lost in the past year. Instead, reflect on the 365 days you’ve lived, on what you still regret, what you still yearn for. Then, welcome the good things ahead, and harvest the sweet fruits of love in the new year.
I love these last days of the year. They are neither cold nor warm but have this lingering chill. It feels as though it makes you feel stronger. Everyone wishes that the coming year will be better than the last. Farmers hope for good weather, better crops, and higher prices. City dwellers hope for wisdom and wealth. May all the worries of the past year be left behind. Believe that life will be more beautiful and more lovable.
I love these last days of the year with all my heart. All the Tet preparations are done. The lights shine brightly, and the incense fills the air. I pause to listen to the whispers of the earth, the sound of leaves cracking, and the knock at the door of spring. Suddenly, I feel a warmth in my heart like never before.
Nguyen Sy Doan
9. Warmth of the Last Dinner of the Year
When I was young, after the Kitchen Gods had ascended to the heavens and the farming chores were done, my mother would urge us children to clean the house, dust the flower vases, and tidy the ancestral altar in preparation for the New Year.
On the thirtieth day of the Lunar New Year, our household, like many others in rural areas, was always busy preparing for the festivities—buying New Year supplies, wrapping bánh chưng, slaughtering chickens, and even pigs… all while preparing the family’s final dinner to welcome ancestors home for Tết.
My family was very poor, often struggling to make ends meet, especially during the lean seasons. So, the New Year was the only time we could eat a hearty meal, all of us sitting together for a festive dinner. The New Year’s Eve meal was usually the first of the holiday, filled with delicious dishes and a sense of togetherness that I eagerly awaited.
They say the best part of Tết is the New Year’s Eve dinner, as it’s the first festive meal and people are not yet tired of the food. My mother, knowing we were growing kids with hearty appetites, always prepared a lavish feast so we could indulge and enjoy. When we gathered around the table, she would encourage us to eat our fill, saying, ‘It’s Tết, not an ordinary day, so eat as much as you want!’
One year, my eldest sister, who was working in Saigon, couldn’t make it home in time due to a missed bus. That year, our New Year’s Eve dinner felt incomplete. My parents, saddened by her absence, were quieter than usual, and though the food was abundant, we all felt the emptiness of her absence. After dinner, as we sat drinking tea, my mother quietly said, ‘Your sister works so hard all year, and yet she couldn’t even join us for our New Year’s Eve meal!’
When we were young and had never been away from home, we didn’t understand the true importance of family reunions during the last meal of the year. My grandmother used to say, ‘Spending Tết away from home is lonely, even if you’re well-off financially. Home and family are the roots we return to for the holidays, no matter where we live.’ As I grew older, I understood her words. It doesn’t matter where life takes you; during Tết, people rush to reunite with family and hometown to celebrate together. I’ve never had to spend a New Year’s Eve away from my parents, but many of my friends have. Some would even say, ‘I wish I could spend New Year’s Eve with my parents, with a simple meal of pickles, rice, and salt, just to be together.’ Sometimes, such simple wishes are the hardest to fulfill due to various circumstances.
As the old year winds down, a new year approaches, and the table for the last dinner of the year is set. No family wants any member to be away for Tết. A full and complete family reunion on New Year’s Eve is what makes the holiday truly joyful.
NGUYỄN THỊ LOAN
10. The Last Meal of the Year
The chill and light drizzle do not dampen the festive spirit of the coming New Year. On the streets, people bustle about, preparing for Tết, filling every corner with excitement.
Memories flood my mind as I recall my childhood. Although my family was poor, every year when Tết approached, my parents would do their best to prepare a complete and thoughtful New Year's Eve meal. My mother often said, 'The meal to invite our ancestors back for Tết must be prepared with care.' And she was always busy and meticulous—right from the beginning of the lunar December, she would buy green beans and glutinous rice to make bánh chưng. Every ingredient was chosen with such care, and perhaps that's why no bánh chưng I’ve ever eaten compares to my mother's.
My mother would accumulate everything little by little, so by the afternoon of the 30th, we had everything ready for the family reunion. The house was filled with a warm, bustling atmosphere, and everyone worked together in the kitchen, without any of the usual tiredness or rush of daily life.
My father, with his expert hands, would turn fresh green dong leaves into perfectly square and compact bánh chưng. My younger sibling and I would crowd around, watching him wrap the cakes, eagerly awaiting the tiny, crooked ones. Despite how many or few there were, those crooked bánh chưng were a cherished part of my childhood Tết. Even now, though we’ve grown up and started our own families, my father still makes those special little cakes for us, just as he did when we were kids.
When the bánh chưng were cooked, retaining their green color from the dong leaves, it was time for my mother and me to finalize the last meal of the year. Simple dishes, yet everyone’s eyes glimmered with a strange joy and anticipation. I’ll never forget the image of my father preparing the altar, lighting incense, and softly inviting the ancestors to join us for the holiday meal in a haze of fragrant smoke. At that age, I couldn’t fully grasp the significance of these rituals, but now, every time I smell the incense, my heart fills with a strange longing.
On the evening of the 30th, the festive atmosphere filled the air. The sounds of joy and laughter echoed through the streets as children returned home to reunite with their families. Stories of the past year were shared among relatives, laughter filled the air, and the smell of bánh chưng wafted through the breeze. The clinking of plates, the joyous laughter around the dinner table, all brought the final meal of the year to life.
We grew up with a peaceful childhood, and those New Year’s Eve dinners are forever etched in my memory. As my siblings and I moved away to work, each in different places, every year when the flowers bloomed and the streets filled with Tết shoppers, I felt a deep, aching homesickness. During those times, I longed for the reunion, the family meal that would bring us all together.
After spending a year away from home, the last days of the year made me yearn to hop on a bus and return to my parents, to the peaceful home that awaited me. Sometimes, while walking down the street, I would hear a song that goes, ‘Mom, this morning spring arrived, and you wait by the door for me. You hope your child will return home for Tết.’ The words would bring tears to my eyes, thinking of my mother sighing with anticipation, counting down the days for us to return, and of my father repainting the house in preparation for the New Year. Every time I heard the sound of a car approaching, he would look out eagerly from the corner of the street.
It is now the 27th day of Tết, the apricot blossoms have bloomed in the garden, the streets are lit up with festive lights, and I, an overseas child, am organizing everything to return home for the family reunion dinner. I can’t wait to witness the joy and happiness of my parents when they hear our voices and footsteps at the door. The warmth of spring is on its way.
NHẬT HẠ
