Top 10 Best Essays About April

These past few days, the weather has been as moody as a young girl, changing from joy to sorrow, beautiful yet strangely uncomfortable. Each day feels like a mix of all four seasons, vivid enough to hold in the palm of your hand. In the middle of April, a quiet nostalgia awakens, filling the heart with countless memories of this time of year.

April is the month of Victory, the celebration of Spring’s triumph, when the nation’s song rings victorious and the land reunites as one. Many still recall that moment over forty years ago, their voices choking with emotion, tears in their eyes. My father, carefully inspecting his worn military uniform, adjusting the medals and decorations that adorn his chest, prepares to meet old comrades from a time when life and death were intertwined. These days, he seems restless, moving about as if waiting for someone. My father, aging from the ravages of war, can never sleep through the night, his mind always wandering, haunted by memories. Each year, he eagerly anticipates the day when he can don his uniform again, carefully smoothing out every crease, adjusting the position of his medals until everything is perfectly aligned. In those moments, it seems as if he has regained his youth.

April also means traveling with my mother to distant, sun-drenched cemeteries, hoping to find a trace of the uncle who has long been lost. Every time we hear a faint lead, she urges me to set aside my work so we can journey together, clinging to the faintest glimmer of hope. These cemeteries, bathed in the spring sunlight, are warmed by the gratitude of the younger generation. Veterans meet again, tears falling for comrades lost, and survivors mourn for the ones who didn’t make it. Every hand, old and worn, grips tightly, sometimes caressing the remains of a fallen soldier. A war veteran sings songs of youth, remembering the innocence of his first love, the promise made under the stars to return, the harsh battles, and the fleeting scent of wildflowers carried on the wind. The pain of war is evident, but every step taken still carries the faint scent of nature's beauty. Today, flowers bloom and fragrance lingers on every corner of the homeland.

April also brings forth a riot of flowers, evoking memories and emotions. The pure white lilies scent the familiar streets, while the peach blossoms of the rural roads bloom, vibrant and fresh. Yellow wildflowers dance in the sunlight, recalling a forgotten melody. The purple jacarandas begin to bloom after the first summer rain, their soft purple hues stirring memories of youth. A few late flowers, such as the forgotten wild orchids, bloom in solitude, clinging to the last moments of their splendor. The red pơ lang flowers begin to dot the landscape, brightening the sun, calling birds back to their nests. The first signs of the phoenix flowers appear, signaling the end of a school year and the farewell to youthful moments. The days are long past when students would exchange handwritten notes and memories. Now, with the digital age in full force, everything moves too quickly. Perhaps I’m just sentimental, yearning for days gone by, even though I know they can never return. My heart aches with memories of old friendship notes, the scribbled letters, and the innocent drawings made in the fleeting moments of youth.

Do we need memories? Yes, we do! They slow us down, reminding us of the days we’ve lived. Even when our memory fades, the essence of those moments remains, filling us with gratitude. Grateful for the love that guides us through the chaos of life...

In the middle of April, with a heart full of turmoil, the streets continue their quiet journey, bathed in the sudden glow of the evening sun. I remember the jacaranda flowers falling after the first summer rain, the wind blowing through messy hair, and the quiet warmth of familiar hands in the cool evening, when the world seems to drift back to memories...

Đào An Duyên

April has returned. The hasty showers make the trees seem even greener; the tender, fragile buds rise boldly, leaving behind the burdens of the old season. Along with this, the persistent chirping of cicadas signals the arrival of summer, resonating through the shade of the lush phoenix trees in the schoolyard. Life in April seems more energetic, as students, full of hope and anxiety, prepare for the end-of-year exams, wondering whether they will continue their studies or venture into new territories; while also facing the challenge of results that will shape their future but also bring new dreams and joys.

April has arrived again. A bridge from spring to summer, with a sky so clear and the sun beginning to burn fiercely, while the flowers typical of the coming season start to blossom. People begin to dream about their loved ones and places they hold dear. And then come the summer rains, sudden and heavy, washing away the dust, heat, and even the burdens of the soul. In those moments, we pause to think about our life’s journey—not with regret, but to plant seeds, nurture growth, and fuel our dreams for the future. It’s in these moments that April gently reminds us, causing our hearts to reflect on the past.

April is here again. From remote villages to bustling cities, flags wave everywhere, stirring memories of the war years that many will never forget. It also empowers the youth, growing up in the spirit of April, to keep pushing forward. Nearly 50 years since April 1975, the emotions surrounding this historic month remain fresh as incense burns at cemeteries, for memories never fade. How could we forget those who sacrificed and contributed so that the nation could unite? How could we forget that the younger generation today is living in peace because of their legacy? This month, filled with vibrant flags and blossoms, is full of both excitement and solemnity. The nation’s anthem rings in the air, vibrating with the rhythm of a country rising up.

April is here again. Butterflies flutter, gracefully dancing around blooming flowers, while birds sing melodies of love. On the roadside, the trees are budding, their leaves glowing with new life, as the jacarandas proudly reveal their pale purple blossoms. And as we witness these changes, we also find ourselves in a hurry to fulfill dreams that have been left unfinished. April arrives, clear and fresh, like the laughter bidding farewell to spring. Our hearts race toward the vibrant summer ahead, full of promise and excitement.

April returns. The past and the present intertwine as we journey toward the future.

Essay: Ngô Văn Cư

“Tháng tư về gió hát mùa hè
Có những chân trời xanh thế
Mây xa vời, nắng xa vời, con sông xa lững lờ trôi...”
(Dương Thụ)

Nắng tháng tư bẽn lẽn sau khung cửa, đủ vàng để làm hoa phượng nhú cái nụ đỏ đỏ bé xíu, làm màu tím bằng lăng muốn bâng khuâng báo hiệu mùa thi đang cận kề. Tháng tư, “Thiếu Nữ Bên Hoa Huệ” trong quyển mỹ thuật xưa vẫn nhẹ nhàng nép vào hoa tinh khôi, như cái tinh khôi nắng mới đầu hè. Bức tranh sơn dầu của họa sĩ Tô Ngọc Vân chắc có thể cũng lấy cảm hứng từ tháng tư, từ những bông hoa huệ tây hay gọi là hoa loa kèn, loài hoa nở vào mỗi dịp tháng tư ngắn ngủi. Những lúc như thế này mình hay tức cảnh sinh tình để mơ màng về thời quá khứ xa xôi, nghĩ về nó để nhớ về những người xưa, để an ủi cho những mệt mỏi toan tính của chính mình hiện tại.

Mình nhớ cây ổi ông nội trồng, tháng tư về, nó bắt đầu ra những chiếc hoa màu trắng, mấy chiếc nhụy hoa cong cong như lông mi thiếu nữ đang độ xuân thì, ngây thơ và tinh khôi đến lạ! Cây ổi ông trồng ngọt lắm, bao mùa hè mấy đứa trẻ con bọn mình hái ổi ông ăn. Nhưng bây giờ ông đã đi xa đến nỗi trong miền ký ức nhớ lại chỉ còn thấy chút gì đó mờ mờ khó tả. Chắc ông đã bay cùng gió nắng của tháng tư lên thiên đàng, bởi ngày ông ra đi, cũng vào tháng tư năm ấy.

Tháng tư mang về cho mình cả những nỗi buồn, nhớ mẹ mình hồi bố chia tay mẹ. Một cơn mưa rào tháng tư bỏng rát đã mang tâm tư và con tim của bố đi theo người con gái khác, để hai mẹ con bơ vơ. Mẹ ra ngóng bố đầu ngõ năm ấy, cứ mỗi khi thấy mỗi cái bóng áo mưa xanh xanh mẹ lại tưởng bố về. Nhưng không phải, đó là những người đàn ông khác cũng khoác chiếc áo mưa xanh giống bố, nhưng họ đang hối hả trên chiếc xe đạp thống nhất theo từng vòng quay đều đều trên đường xa ướt mưa về với gia đình thân yêu đang đợi họ. Hẳn là họ sẽ có một buổi tối bên gia đình hạnh phúc lắm. Còn mẹ, nhìn xuống chỉ thấy đứa con gái bé bỏng là mình, mẹ buồn nắm lấy tay mình lủi thủi dắt nhau về nhà không ngóng bố nữa. Mẹ viết nắn nót trong nhật ký:’’ Ngày buồn chiều tháng tư, bố không về, hai mẹ con nấu cơm nếp ăn với tôm rang, mong trời ngừng mưa lòng người bớt ngổn ngang, vết thương không còn ẩm ướt”. Sau này mình có đọc lại những dòng nhật ký của mẹ, mình đã khóc. Hẳn là lúc ấy mẹ buồn lắm.

Sáng nay, mình đi qua hàng cây bằng lăng đi làm, hoa tím se sắt gợi nhớ đủ cung bậc trạng thái suy tư của mình. Mình của hiện tại vì công việc áp lực mà thấy buồn thế, thấy mọi thứ trở nên vô nghĩa khi con người với người đầy quan hệ thực dụng với nhau. Rõ ràng nó đối ngược hẳn với sắc hoa bằng lăng đang vô tư đáng yêu kia. Trong phút chốc lòng mình chùng xuống, rồi ước được là cánh hoa ấy, mỏng manh nhưng đẹp, chỉ cần vô tư đón gió vậy thôi rồi tàn ngay cũng được, cũng thấy ý nghĩa. Vậy nên làm con người buồn lắm, niềm vui thì ít mà nỗi buồn thì nhiều, nó cứ dài như dòng sông chảy xiết mãi không thấy bến bờ. Mình nép vào tháng tư an ủi. Nó có dịu dàng như sắc hoa dại đang đón gió nơi cửa sổ kia không? Xin cho lòng mình ghé tạm với! Khi nào vết thương được hong nắng mình lại trở về như thủa ban đầu, tỏa nắng những nụ cười từng héo úa.

Tiếng thở dài kéo mình trở về thực tại. Nhưng mình biết ngày nào cũng sẽ qua, nỗi đau mấy rồi thời gian trôi đi sẽ lại lành. Cũng như tháng tư ngắn ngủi ra đi rồi lại về với chúng ta theo trình tự thời gian bốn mùa, 12 tháng. Vậy nên cứ sống thật tốt, trân trọng những phút giây hiện tại ta có. Đó mới là thông điệp tháng tư đến và gửi gắm cho chúng ta. Nếu bạn không tin cứ ngắm những sắc hoa ngoài kia sẽ thấy.

Nguyễn Thanh Nga

Each April, my father opens his wardrobe, carefully handling his worn military uniform and the bright medals that still cling to his chest. It's the time of year when he prepares to reunite with his old comrades, those who had fought alongside him through thick and thin. Watching him, I often think that out of the 365 days in a year, everything he does and thinks seems to be in anticipation of this one special reunion. In these days of April, he appears different—restless, walking around aimlessly, as if waiting for someone.

My father, a man who lived through the fires of war, never sleeps soundly at night, as the memories of battle haunt him endlessly. Every year, he looks forward to the day when he can wear his old uniform, straightening every crease, adjusting his medals with meticulous care, and somehow looking younger as he does so. When the reunion comes, I can see the joy in his eyes as he greets his old friends. The soldiers, now older and frailer, embrace each other tearfully. Each year, the group grows smaller, but the stories continue to flow.

Though these men are now aging, and many carry the scars of war, their conversations are not about illness or the troubles of old age. They talk about memories—those bright days of their youth, filled with hope, vitality, and dreams. I have memorized my father’s stories, not only about his own experiences but about his comrades. When I was younger, I imagined them as giants, capable of feats beyond belief, performing extraordinary acts. But when I finally met them—men with missing limbs, lost sight, and other visible scars—I cried. It wasn’t because my childhood heroes had been shattered, but because I felt an overwhelming sympathy for their suffering, the same kind of love my father has carried with him for years, ever since I was born.

This April, I traveled with my mother to a distant cemetery, bathed in sunlight and wind, hoping to find her brother, lost in the vastness of so many cemeteries across the country. Whenever we heard rumors or faint news, my mother urged me to rearrange my schedule so we could embark on another search, even if the hope was slim. Is there anywhere on Earth with as many war cemeteries as our homeland? Row upon row of graves, many with only a small inscription that reads, 'Martyr Unknown.'

Every person born in this world has a name—given with love and expectation: Hùng, Cường, Mạnh, Đạt… But when they fall, their names dissolve into the earth. The sun of April grows hotter, and at the cemetery’s entrance, a few scattered pơ lang flowers remain, desperately clinging to their last blooms, warming the spirits of the fallen.

This April, I finished reading a book about the war. The portraits of war come to life through the words of those who lived it. It was only through reading that I realized my father had often softened his stories for me, knowing I am overly sensitive. I’ve long since closed the book, but the stories remain lodged in my mind. The food I eat, the clothes I wear, the roads lined with wildflowers that I pass every day were all bought with the blood and sacrifice of those who came before me. Even on this very land where I live, there were times when bombs fell relentlessly. Soldiers, so desperate for peace, would weep as they bathed in a clear mountain stream, unable to believe such moments of calm could exist.

I am grateful every April for my father’s faded military uniform, for the rare journeys with my mother, for the solitary pơ lang flowers by the cemetery gate, for the pages of the book I just finished, and for every peaceful moment I get to live. All of these help me understand and cherish every single day of life.

Đào An Duyên

April has returned, stirring in me countless memories—though more than half a lifetime has passed, they remain vivid and unforgotten...

I was born and raised in a poor countryside, where the land is scorched by the relentless sun and soaked by the heavy rains. This land has followed me through every stage of my life. How could I ever forget my childhood, where a simple meal of rice and salt was a luxury? The fierce war tore through everything, and our house was destroyed to create a shelter. After peace was restored, the new homes were hastily built, barely standing against the storms of central Vietnam. By the time I entered high school, the war had ended in the north, but the hardships of those who survived still lingered. We returned from our evacuation to find our school, once a multi-story building, now reduced to half its structure by American bombs. Despite the devastation, we continued our studies in a building with broken walls and scorched remains. The labor to clean the school, plant trees, and rebuild was tiring, yet joyful, like a celebration. The dirt road in front of the school was often covered in thick red dust during the dry season and turned into a muddy quagmire in the rain, but it was always filled with laughter and the sound of bicycle bells ringing as the students made their way to class.

In April 1975, we were focused on studying for our high school graduation exams. The faces of exhausted students, pale from long hours of study and the scorching heat, still shone with joy when the adults spoke about the military situation in the south. For us, the south was a mysterious and sacred place, known only through books and songs like, 'The South has many coconuts, pineapples, fragrant mangoes, and sweet potatoes…'. We knew that many of our peers had left their studies behind to answer the call of the nation, enlisting in the army even though they hadn’t completed their studies. In January 1975, many of us, just 18 years old, joined the military, and in some classrooms, only a third of the students remained, so multiple classes were combined. Those who weren't drafted often felt guilty for not being able to serve when the country needed them most, so they threw themselves into their studies, following the last wishes of their friends: 'Study for us too!'

That summer came early. By April, the sun was scorching, and the dry Lào wind blasted across our faces. The flamboyant trees we planted along the school road began to bloom with their bright red flowers. On April 30th, while the 10th-grade students were taking their graduation exams, a quiet morning was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a loudspeaker from a car slowly passing by the school gate. At first, everyone tried to stay quiet, pretending to focus on their work, but someone suddenly shouted, 'Saigon has been liberated, how wonderful!' Immediately, the whole class erupted in excitement, rushing to the yard to watch the car announcing the victory. Laughter and cheers filled the air, and it took the teacher quite a while to calm everyone down and get them back to their exams. After that day, and for the following days, the only thing on everyone’s lips was the liberation of the South. We carried this immense joy with us as we entered our exams, feeling that the stress and fatigue had somehow lifted.

The farewell arts performance on the last night at school was deeply emotional. The sound of the guitar and the voices singing high notes were mixed with a bit of sadness, as if they reflected our feelings for those who had left to serve their country, never to return to our old school. Our class’s 'artistic soul' recited poems with tears in her eyes. The simple verses about our homeland still resonate with me even after many years...

'Who knows the taste of Nghệ An?

The saltier, the better.

The green tea of Nghệ An?

The more bitter, the more delicious.'

…

'The old teacher of Nghệ An?

The more he teaches, the wiser he becomes.'

'The people of Nghệ An?

The more they know, the more they love…'

Nguyễn Minh Nguyệt

Twenty years have passed. April, with its pure white lilies, its delicate and ethereal charm, its dreamy roads bathed in the soft morning sun, feels like the shy, gentle spring of a young woman. A bit fragile, a bit elegant, and with an unspoken sense of longing that gradually seeps into memory, lingering in the depths of time. Now, all that remains are faded fragments of this vision in my mind.

In its place is the scorching heat of the southern sun, accompanied by the distant rumblings of thunder announcing the arrival of the summer rains. The oppressive humidity fills the air, making it feel as though something invisible is trying to suffocate, challenging one's patience and endurance, pushing the limits of tolerance.

The early summer is like a fickle lover, alternating between intense heat and sudden coolness, moving through the full range of emotions—joy, anger, and everything in between—leaving one lost, tangled in a haze of confusion and frustration, as if trapped in a maze with no clear path forward.

Then, when the rain finally falls, it feels as if everything is reborn, rejuvenated after days of withering in the harshness of the heat. Even the resilient trumpet vine, with its once-vibrant life force, now seems to sag, waiting for the rain to revive it. The frangipani tree in the yard no longer stretches wide and green; it sluggishly turns, struggling to photosynthesize. Everything seems to halt before the first rainfall, like a woman in labor, aching, waiting for the moment of transformation.

The entire world holds its breath, waiting for the first raindrops to fall—like a woman waiting for a confession of love, filled with hope and longing. The earth itself seems to hold its breath, ready to receive the life-giving gift from nature. It's like a parched traveler in the desert, finally discovering an oasis of water.

In that moment, everything seems to come alive again, filling the world with renewed energy and joy. The dryness and desolation give way to exuberance as everything bursts into bloom, and the earth sings with life. The sound of the rain, the soft pattering, fills the air, bringing peace and grace like an eighteen-year-old girl blossoming in the prime of youth. It's like a symphony of emotions—the highs and lows of a changing season. Oh, April, with all its transformations! My soul is gently caressed by the first summer rain, and everything seems lighter, as though it is leading me to dream of love and the warmth of spring once more.

Nguyễn Thị Mai Diệp

Spring gently lingers as the pale peach blossoms fall
With the mộc miên leaves dropping in the second month, and everything fades
But the young girl Bân clings to the earthly world
While the drizzle makes it impossible to sit and weave clothes for her husband.

The house is filled with the sadness of winter
And today, the sun blushes with the pink hue of April's warmth...

When the swallows glide aimlessly, they suddenly hurry to carry spring away, taking with them the peach blossoms that have withered in the light drizzle of a sky missing the sun. It is also the time when the sầu đông trees begin to bloom. The tiny, delicate flowers scatter across the wet earth, while the grass gleams with the rainwater left from yesterday, as if trying to hold onto the spirit of spring. But this morning, everything seems to awaken, as birds chirp from the green canopy, and thin rays of sunlight silently fall to the ground. As I tear off the last page of March’s calendar, I hide it quickly, like the old woman tearing the bark off the tangerine peel, fearing the dampness will bring back old memories.

In April, the young shoots, which have long been hidden in the earth, now spring forth, dancing joyfully in the new sunlight. The fresh morning air, filled with the fragrance of flowers, the calls of birds, and the fluttering butterflies, all contribute to the symphony welcoming the new dawn. Everything feels vibrant and bright.

April brings a wave of nostalgia. It reminds me of childhood days, the smell of roasted rice mixed with water to make thick paste, carrying a lantern to follow my father setting the fishing traps at night, while the croaking frogs and the rustling bamboo groves whispered stories, or creaked in warning. The basket, covered with a few bamboo sticks, made a soft crackling sound as the shrimp nibbled at the bait. Then, after a few rounds of setting the traps, my tired, sleepy eyes would slowly close as I listened to the lullaby of the wind and the fairytale moon, smiling in my dreams.

In April, there would be treats from the market in my mother’s basket, little creatures made from fried dough, perfect for playing and eating. I would eagerly open the woven bag, only to find lilies that my mother had bought to offer for the harvest season. The delicate buds, still wrapped in soft greenish-blue petals, would bloom white with golden stamens the next day.

April arrives, and the earth seems to wake from its drowsy slumber beneath the morning sun. The world feels more spacious, no longer cramped by the misty rains of the previous season, but light and airy, like a thin layer of fabric, with bright smiles and sparkling eyes.

April, I miss you.

Cậu Tú

April arrives with the summer breeze
Bringing with it wide, blue horizons!

I am captivated by the lively, deep, and heartfelt melody of the song 'April Arrives!' by composer Dương Thụ, sung passionately by Hồng Nhung. I am taken in by the wistful feeling of the late spring days, as the spring flowers seem to bloom quickly, flaunting their colors in the cool air, because summer is coming. The vibrant dahlias appear to say farewell, leaving a bittersweet feeling of spring's departure. Soft raindrops kiss the flowers, while the blossoms sway gently in the breeze.

In April, it is the season for the trumpet flowers, a bloom so easy to cultivate. Every late March morning, I eagerly search around the base of the starfruit tree, where I planted last year's bulbs. The birds chirp merrily, as if they too enjoy the seasonal shift, relishing the sudden warmth that causes raindrops on the leaves to sparkle. The flowers begin to sprout quickly, growing tall and proud amidst dark green, bending leaves. The flowers, like open hands, stand out with their simple beauty and friendly nature. Their fragrance is delicate, drifting in the soft sunshine of this transitional weather. Summer calls. Whether white or red, the flowers always stand out against their green leaves. I love peeling off the outer layer to reveal the pure white bulbs, planting them in small pots placed in my living room or bedroom. The flowers last longer this way, and their beauty is striking. At night, bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, I gaze at the pots of trumpet flowers, enjoying their gentle fragrance. Sometimes, a sudden rainstorm or thunder calling for summer rolls in, and I fall asleep to the soothing sound of the rain on the porch.

Is it not that the heavens themselves are nostalgic?
April arrives, bringing a gentle sense of longing.
The fragrance of spring still lingers,
But the thunder is already calling for summer this evening!

April is also a time of the lunar March, so the sudden chill of the Bân cold comes unexpectedly. It’s the kind of cold that urges us to snuggle deeper under thin blankets, while just a few hours earlier, we were using the fan to chase away the midday heat. After just a few days of this cool, crisp breeze, the cold takes on a romantic quality, like the story of the maiden Bân. The kitchens glow warmly under the soft light, and families gather to enjoy wintery dishes. That sudden chill brings feelings of comfort, as those in love find ways to care for each other... even if it’s just offering a warm coat during this fleeting cold spell.

At night, I hear the wind of the dry season
Remembering the intoxicating scent of milk flowers, filled with longing.
The winter passed so suddenly
Yet, enough time to offer a coat as a message from the Maiden Bân.

April also brings short showers. In the morning, the plants seem to wear a fresh coat of vibrant green. I visit the market and pass by the Lagerstroemia trees, which are now richer in color and fuller, ready to embrace the sun and wind of summer, preparing to bloom in delicate purple. People are much like that! Although we are nostalgic for spring, we eagerly welcome the summer, with its cicadas singing and flowers in full bloom, the colors of summer represented in flamboyant peacock flowers and golden cassias.

April is a month where the weather of all four seasons—Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter—comes together. It’s fascinating to experience moments from all seasons, sometimes in a single day or over a few days. The chill is not as long as winter, and the heat is brief, like it’s just there to enhance the sparkling raindrops on the leaves. The thunder calling for summer is not loud, and the rain dances lightly in the gentle dry season breeze, weaving in and out. Because of this, April stirs feelings of nostalgic longing, as human emotions are always intertwined with the beauty of nature, with the earth, and with the flowers that surround us.

The heavens themselves seem to be in a daze,
As April gathers the nostalgia of all four seasons...

Đỗ Thu Yên

In April, the last whispers of the cool air from winter linger, stirring a nostalgic feeling for the winter that has passed. A hint of breeze and the lingering drizzle of late spring remind me that summer is just beginning to peek its head around the corners of familiar streets.

The first rays of sunlight timidly shine through the green canopy of leaves. Birds, having weathered the cold rain, suddenly burst into song, filling the air with their lively chatter. The earth seems to don a fresh, vibrant coat of green as the spring buds stretch awake, turning into tiny, shy fruits at the tips of branches.

April is the month of purity, with the pristine white blossoms of the trumpet flower. It’s a month that carries a delicate fragrance, filled with a longing, as the scent of flowers drifts through the neighborhood. It’s also a month of reflection, as I remember the late, great musician Trịnh Công Sơn, whose soulful melodies have now joined the wind and the clouds.

April serves as the bridge between spring and summer, a time when the world is full of stirring emotions and nostalgic thoughts. The sky whispers memories from the past, and I catch myself humming old songs. April brings a deep sense of longing, as memories hidden deep within the heart are unexpectedly awakened by the beauty of a season that is both fleeting and eternal. The seasons of flowers keep unfolding, one after another. April sows seeds of hope, promising a future of quiet, simple joy and peace.

April also brings with it a day of harmless deception, yet somehow, it leaves behind an authentic feeling. The streets seem gentler, thanks to the vendors selling flowers, and the hearts of the people calm, as the brief, delicate transition between seasons passes by. April is as soft as silk, weaving emotions into the fabric of nature, making everything feel tender and sincere.

Softly, I say goodbye to my April girl...

Hoàng Hạnh

April arrives with a sky so clear, the sea hums a sweet lullaby beside the rocky shore. In the evenings, I ride my bike along the wind-blown roads, and my mind drifts back to distant memories...

In April, in the city by the Lam River, there are years when the dry wind from Laos arrives early. Twice a day, my father rides his bicycle through the sun-drenched, dust-laden roads from the outskirts to the city for work. His face, already worn and haggard, seems even more sun-scorched under the intense heat of early summer. My mother sighs, watching his sweat-soaked shirt grow more faded by the day, and his hair turns grayer from the years of hard labor for our family.

April is when my mother’s baskets grow heavier, burdened with sweet potatoes in season, bought to supplement our sparse meals. I remember her walking tirelessly from early morning fog until late evening, collecting every last coin, going from village market to the evening city market. Her long hair, now thinning, grew lighter, mirroring the wrinkles on a face once called the beauty of Vinh. Later, when I moved away, I would always remember her hurried figure riding home at dusk, her bike loaded with goods she had bought to sell at the village market. After a quick dinner, my parents would sit together packing goods for the next morning’s market. April was also the month of exams, so my siblings and I would study late into the night. My father was always strict about our education, and despite our family's struggles, he never allowed us to skip school to help with earning money. He carried a lifelong regret of being unable to continue his own education due to poverty, and from the age of fifteen, he had worked as a laborer to support his family. On April nights, the sound of bamboo rustling in the breeze, and the cool winds blowing from the sea, would bring a peaceful smile to my father’s face as he watched us huddled together studying under the dim light of an oil lamp… These memories remain deeply etched in my heart, even after so many years. April, in my dear homeland in Nghe An.

In April, during my final year of high school, with exams piling up, I couldn’t shake the longing for my friends who had joined the army in early spring. The boys and girls, bright as fresh phoenix flowers, had put away their books and answered the call to serve their country. There were tearful, heartfelt farewells. Some letters sent from the battlefield would arrive, filled with nostalgia for school days. In the blazing summer heat of that year, we threw ourselves into studying, each of us trying to cover the lessons our absent friends could no longer attend.

What I remember most vividly was the day of our mock graduation exam on April 30, 1975. When the loudspeakers announced the liberation of Saigon, the entire exam room erupted in cheer. I’m sure everyone’s heart was filled with thoughts of reunification with the friends who had joined the army. The carefree, innocent days of school, where we shared both joy and sorrow, even though it’s been almost fifty years since that day… Every April, I recall that mock exam day, and the memories stir in my heart as if I were seventeen again, with my youthful spirit racing in my chest. April reminds me of Nghe An. It binds my heart to that poor yet deeply loving land, where, despite the hardship, there was always so much love and affection.

As I grow older, nearing the end of autumn, I wonder how many more Aprils I have left to live with the lingering emotions of past years, memories that refuse to fade. But I know that each morning, when I wake to the sound of birds chirping and see the flowers outside shyly reaching for the sunlight, my heart will be filled with joy and an immeasurable gratitude for life, even though it is full of its ups and downs. Oh April, my heart has found peace, yet the memories of love and kindness continue to stir within me, carried on with the passing years...

Nguyễn Minh Nguyệt