Top 10 Best Essays about Grandmothers

It’s a gloomy, rainy day in Hanoi after several chilly autumn days, with the wind whispering through the trees. On this mid-autumn day, during the Covid pandemic and social distancing period, the cold rain feels even more melancholic, adding to the somber atmosphere. Today is also the anniversary of my paternal grandmother’s passing. My childhood is inseparably linked with her! My grandfather had passed long before I was born, and my maternal grandparents were also gone. I only had the privilege of living with my grandmother! Suddenly, memories of her flood back—those innocent and beautiful childhood days I spent with her.

Memories always stir love and affection, even though they carry both beauty and sorrow. As I reflect on these memories, the clear, bright days of my childhood return. I vividly recall my younger self—tiny, disheveled, messy, with hair tied up in a small chicken-tail knot. I was so young, innocent, and clumsy.

Back then, my grandmother’s back was already quite bent. 'My grandmother had a bent back, never went to market in the rain...' Throughout my childhood, I always saw her at home, taking care of her grandchildren. There were four of us. I still remember her simple but profound teachings. Her voice was gentle, almost like a fairytale! She would refresh my childhood dreams with stories—oral traditions passed down from the elders. In those days, most people were uneducated, and few could read or write. My grandmother was from a Catholic family in Ninh Binh. She knew many old stories, which she told in old words and even made up her own phrases. She also loved reciting folk poems and proverbs. For example, when she saw the naughty children misbehaving, she would call them 'nậm chúng đầu đẳng,' meaning unruly kids who didn't listen to their elders. Later, I realized this was similar to the saying 'a group of peas in a pod.'

My grandmother loved storytelling. I was the one who listened most attentively. She often told us stories about the past—about fleeing from wars, famine, being chased by the French, and seeking refuge in Hanoi. She described these events in great detail, and her vivid imagery helped us understand the hardships of those times. I was just a little child, about five years old, when I heard these stories. Sometimes I didn't fully understand them, but they left a lasting impression on my young mind.

She would also tell folk tales and share stories from her Catholic faith. She believed deeply in God and often called out, 'Lord, have mercy!' when she was ill or anxious. Her words echoed like a beautiful hymn. Now, I regret not asking her to tell me more stories or sing those hymns for me.

The hymns I later heard in church were filled with beauty—mysterious, serene, and solemn. I often wish I had kept the stories she shared with me, for they came from my own grandmother. She belonged to an older generation. 'As old as my grandmother's wrinkled hands!' My grandmother passed away many years ago, but her stories still linger in my heart.

My childhood memories are always tied to the love and care of my grandmother. Even though I was just a child of four or five, I still remember those moments clearly. During the war, we had to evacuate as American planes bombed our country. My siblings and I, along with my grandmother, were sent to the mountains. I remember the beautiful days we spent in Sa Pa when I was five, during the harsh period of the Vietnam War (1964-1965). My grandmother carried me all the way from Lao Cai to Sa Pa, and although I was sick and constantly vomiting from the winding roads, she never let go of me. I recall a beautiful stream we passed, with rocks covered in green moss, and I can still picture the landscape in my mind.

The peaceful life in the mountains of Lao Cai with its lush nature felt like paradise. I now realize how lucky my childhood was—surrounded by green hills, fresh air, and kind-hearted people. My home was on a beautiful hill, with rice fields around and a nearby forest, all forming part of my childhood’s landscape. These memories naturally flowed into my writing, like a clear, refreshing stream.

As I grew up, my siblings and I spent more time with our grandmother. Our parents were always busy, with my father working on literacy programs for the people in the mountainous regions of Lao Cai, and my mother balancing medical studies with providing healthcare in remote villages. We often stayed at home with my grandmother, who was more present than our mother. My father was a respected educator, and my siblings and I were always well-behaved, afraid of being scolded. We attended school, cooked meals, and helped with the animals in the garden.

Although I was the youngest, I spent the most time with my grandmother, as I rarely went outside. We were children of war—our lives shaped by scarcity and hardship, just like most children at the time. Yet, our childhood was still filled with joy. Every day, we would wear straw hats to school, and we never complained. Those were the days we lived in Nam Cuong, during the evacuation.

My grandmother was always hardworking. She kept the house tidy, cooked meals, and took care of the garden, always working from dawn until the cold evenings. I was her favorite grandchild, and I slept next to her every night. I remember the days when she complained about back pain, and I would gently rub her back with my small hands. I recall the moments when a storm would suddenly arrive, and she would rush out to call us all back inside. After the storms, she would light the oil lamp and cook us dinner to keep us from going hungry.

On quiet afternoons, my grandmother would reflect on the past, counting the days using her fingers to track the lunar calendar. 'My grandmother counts the days, like the ribbons of her worn hair, each day slipping by as the seasons change...' (A poem I wrote about my grandmother).

My grandmother loved to tell us fairy tales, like the story of Thach Sanh, who worked hard every day collecting firewood in the forest. I loved the character of the Fairy, and I often thought about the beautiful, kind Tấm. Later, I realized that even Tấm, the pure-hearted character, had a darker side. The stories my grandmother told were simple yet profound, leaving a deep impression on me. The tales of Lưu Bình Dương Lễ brought tears to my eyes, and I still remember the joy she brought to my childhood dreams.

My grandmother's folk tales, her nurturing spirit, and the love she shared with me will always remain a cherished part of my life. I remember her as the one who healed me when I was sick, who taught me how to live a good life, and whose care and wisdom shaped my early years.

Even as she aged, with her back bent and her eyes dimming, I never forgot her. I recall the days when she was bedridden, but still managed to brighten our lives. Her presence, even in her weakness, was still strong in my memory. I will never forget the smell of her illness, that bittersweet scent that stayed with me long after she passed.

As time passed, my grandmother's health deteriorated. She had to lie in bed for many years, but she remained sharp until the end. I always slept beside her, and I remember her words, 'When you feel the pain, call on the Lord.' Even in her final days, she remained connected to her faith. The last time I saw her, she asked to go to my father's grave to say goodbye. Her frail body, bent with age, walked slowly as if each step carried the weight of the world. The autumn leaves fell around us as she said goodbye to my father. I will always remember her, and I will love her forever.

Phạm Thị PhươngThảo

My childhood was filled with much hardship, as I didn't have the chance to be with my grandmothers. I lost my paternal grandmother at the age of two and my maternal grandmother when I was four. My memories of them are faint and distant.

Yet, it seems as though fate understood these early losses, for it blessed me with other "grandmothers" to fill the void. Every time I think of them, my heart still aches, and I find myself calling out: Grandmother, where are you?

The "grandmother" I want to speak of is my step-grandmother. A few years after my paternal grandmother's passing, my grandfather remarried her when both were already elderly. My grandfather had become a well-known herbalist by then, and she helped him take care of his herbal garden. She was gentle, patient, hardworking, quick, and capable. She had also been widowed early, and their connection was natural. My uncles, aunts, and even her own daughter supported their union. We children, who hadn’t had a grandmother for so long, were overjoyed. We begged our parents to let us visit them more often.

Each time we visited, she showed us so much care and attention. Her gifts were simple, like rice cakes, cassava cakes, and small, crunchy candies, but we loved them all. Before we left, she would always prepare small gift bags with food for us to take. When my parents worked at a silk farm in Vũ Đoài, near where my grandparents lived, she would wake up early to cook and prepare herbs for my grandfather. She then trekked across the fields to help my parents with meals and take care of my four siblings, and in the evening, she hurried back to cook for my grandfather. She quietly worked hard to care for both near and far family members. Throughout our childhood, she was the one who loved and cared for us most. Among my grandfather’s children, she had the closest bond with our family. My parents also always cherished and respected her. She even said that if my grandfather passed away before her, she would live with my parents. My parents agreed.

And indeed, my grandfather passed first, unexpectedly, after suffering a stroke while sitting and cutting herbs for a customer. After his funeral, an unfortunate situation unfolded. My step-grandmother’s biological daughter, blinded by material gain, took all of their property and severed ties with my grandfather’s side of the family. Left with no other option, my grandmother had to follow her daughter. We all felt sorrow, and we regretted how my step-grandmother, whom we once considered an aunt, was treated by someone we loved.

Later, when my parents moved to Vũ Phúc, close to where my grandmother was living, we managed to reconnect with her. A few times, we invited her over to visit, but she only stayed for a meal and then left. Despite the joy of seeing each other again, she hesitated to stay, still burdened by the past. She passed away, and we didn’t find out until months later, so we didn’t get the chance to pay our respects.

The "maternal grandmother" came to us through fate, too. Before marrying my mother, my father had been engaged to a teacher. When my father went to Laos, the teacher likely thought the future was uncertain due to the war, so she married a Chinese man. When my father returned from the war, he understood the teacher's decision, let go of the past, and married my mother. Everyone was content, and there were no hard feelings. The teacher’s mother, who still held respect for my father, wanted to make amends for what had happened, so she accepted my mother as her daughter, and my father remained her son-in-law. The teacher and her siblings became like aunts and uncles to us. She treated my mother like her firstborn. I remember that every time my mother gave birth, my grandmother and aunts would bring chickens, eggs, and sticky rice to visit. My grandmother's hometown was famous for its tea, and in season, she would ride her bike to bring us the best tea, large jackfruits, and bananas. During the summer, she would send my uncles to pick us up to visit. When we grew tired and wanted to return to our parents, she would let us. When I learned to ride a bike, I started visiting her more. I was a small, dark-skinned child with messy hair and oversized sandals, feeling the pressure of bad grades and the risk of being cut from the provincial competition team. This made me feel hopeless, so I would cycle to my grandmother’s house. When she saw I wasn’t happy, she asked about it, and I cried as I told her. She brushed my hair, washed my face, and encouraged me to eat. In the afternoon, she would stop everything and ride her bike to my house, talk to my parents, and only then would she leave. My aunts stayed with us when they had university exams, and every time one of them or my uncles got married, my parents took responsibility as the eldest siblings. We spent many years together, bound by love and family warmth.

As time went on, my grandmother’s health declined, and in her final years, she was bedridden. We grew older, married, and visited her less. My parents relied on us to take them to see her. Unfortunately, our neglect meant we were too late, and we couldn’t be with her when she passed.

Many times, I reflect: Life gave me these kind and loving grandmothers who accompanied me through so much, but why couldn’t we walk the last mile together? When it was time to fulfill the duty of the deceased, we were absent.

Watching my children with their maternal grandparents and my younger siblings’ children with their paternal grandparents, I see their happiness. I silently wish they will never take these loving people for granted.

The beautiful memories of my grandmothers still linger in my heart. On sleepless nights as I approach middle age, I still choke up and silently call out: Grandmother, I miss you!

Phạm Hồng Oanh

In my heart, my maternal grandmother has always been a second mother to me. With my father serving in the military far from home and my mother busy with work, my grandmother came to live with us when I was born to help take care of the family. Almost everything, from carrying me, feeding me, to putting me to sleep, was done by her. Naturally, I grew very attached to her. My mother often tells the story of when I was just learning to walk and fell seriously ill. My grandmother was the one who carried me from one hospital to another, and even to a herbalist for acupuncture and massage until I finally started to get better. Back then, public transportation wasn’t as available, and since she couldn’t ride a bicycle, she walked for miles, carrying me on her back, telling me stories along the way. She also packed a small meal of rice balls with sesame salt for us to eat together. Although I was too young to remember much, the taste of those rice balls and the love of my grandmother are deeply etched in my heart, as if they were woven into my very being.

During the summer holidays, my parents would send me to live with my grandmother in the countryside. I spent the entire three months by her side, following her everywhere—whether to the market, in the kitchen, or out in the garden. Every year, as soon as summer arrived, even before I could pack, she would remind me to come and save me treats. I vividly remember waking up in the mornings to walk to the village market with her, where the stalls were quiet, with only a few bundles of vegetables or fish, but the sense of community and camaraderie was immense. The market felt like a place for neighbors to catch up, share their joys and sorrows. My grandmother would hold my hand, leading me down the familiar village road, introducing me to everyone we met as her granddaughter who had come to visit.

I remember the lazy summer afternoons, lying on the hammock beneath the old bamboo trees, drifting in and out of sleep with the cool summer breeze. I recall the fire she tended, stoking it to cook while the warmth of the straw and the thin smoke lingered in the evening mist. The meals we shared, often simple dishes like crab soup with water spinach or stir-fried shrimp, were always enough to fill my stomach. In the evenings, I would join the local children in catching fireflies and placing them in jars as lanterns, running from house to house until it was time to return. At night, I would lie in my grandmother's lap, listening to her tell stories, with her fanning me with a palm leaf, and I would drift off to sleep, not remembering when I had fallen asleep. My childhood memories are inseparable from the peaceful countryside, where my grandmother was always present, carrying water, tending the garden, and waiting for the children to come. Her image, with her gentle smile beneath her black scarf, her hunched back, and her brown shirt, will forever be etched in my mind. I can still hear the sound of her chewing betel, and the phrase “Is your father’s family from here?” which she often said playfully while scolding me. She passed away many years ago, but whenever I think of her, my heart swells with love and tenderness. Even in my dreams, I wish I could return to my childhood days, following my grandmother to the market, being carried on her back, hearing her lull me to sleep, and listening to her stories…

The wheel of time keeps turning, and my childhood has faded into the distance. Now, as I enter middle age, I find myself calling my mother "grandmother" with the same deep, boundless love that connects generations. Perhaps one day, my daughter will write about her grandmother the way I am now, and she won’t be able to hold back the tears that will rise in her eyes. Once again, I quietly whisper: Grandmother, I miss you!...

Thao Phuong

“If she were still alive, my grandmother would have turned 100 this year, wouldn't she, mom?” I asked my mother on the anniversary of my grandmother's passing. “Yes, it’s hard to believe! Nine years have gone by so quickly.” My grandmother passed away nine years ago, yet for me, it feels as though she is still here, near me, her voice, her face, her hair, her walk, all alive in my memory. Her image is etched deeply in my mind, full of love and warmth. My grandmother had a round, gentle face with fair skin—something none of my aunts, uncles, or cousins inherited. I loved watching her rosy cheeks, especially when she sat by the stove or chewed betel nuts while chatting joyfully with the family.

When I was a child, I was fortunate enough to live with my grandmother for a long time. I remember when I was in fourth or fifth grade, I would sneak behind her, imitating her as she pounded rice with the pestle. My little feet would bounce up and down to the rhythm of the mortar. Back then, there were no rice mills like now, so my grandmother had to manually pound and grind the rice. I loved helping her in whatever way I could, even if it was just picking out the remaining grains of husk from the rice.

As my mother tells it, my grandmother once worked at a local store before retiring. After that, she sold goods at the market to help support the family. I can still vividly recall the joy of running to the gate whenever I saw her returning from the market, because I knew she would always bring me something. Sometimes it was a sweet rice cracker, other times a deep-fried pastry. I was always so excited!

As I grew older, my uncles and aunts moved away for school and work, and my grandmother invited me to live with her for companionship. She spoiled me in every way. Whenever she bought something delicious, she made sure to save a portion for me. On hot summer nights, she would fan me with a handmade palm-leaf fan until I fell asleep. She never seemed to sleep herself, because whenever I woke up, her arm would still be moving up and down to keep me cool. My childhood was filled with her protective, loving embrace.

About 500 meters from her house, there was an old French-built bridge. During the rainy season, the river would flood, making the bridge impassable. That’s why the locals called it “The Flooded Bridge.” During these times, the people living on either side of the bridge couldn't cross, waiting for the water to subside before they could use boats or rafts to get across. My grandmother often reminisced about the days when I was little and would cry or complain. My uncles would jokingly threaten that “the Flooded Bridge grandmother” would come and get me. Just hearing that was enough to make me stop whining. Society has since developed, and the old bridge has been replaced with a new, stronger, and more beautiful one. But the old bridge remains a witness to my childhood memories, even as my grandmother is no longer here.

....

My father passed away early. After that, my grandmother came to live with my mother and us four siblings, helping with the cooking and daily chores. While my mother went to teach and we went to school, my grandmother took care of everything. When we returned home, she always had a meal ready for us.

As I grew older, went to school, worked, and got married, my grandmother moved to my uncle's house to help take care of his children. Around noon, she would stand at the gate, waiting for me to pass by so she could call me in for lunch. Back then, my husband worked far away, and my young daughter was at school all day. My grandmother continued to wait for me, calling me in for lunch as if I were still a child, always saving the best part for me, even though I was already a mother myself.

Even in her later years, when there were any family events or ceremonies, my grandmother never sat still. She would be helping to pick vegetables, clean dishes, and prepare for everything with the family. She always said, “Let me do it, I enjoy it.” It made us all happy to see her so healthy and active. Whenever there were meetings or gatherings in the neighborhood for the elderly, my uncle and aunt would take her early in the morning. Many times, when they arrived at the community hall, no one else was there yet. She was meticulous and careful in everything she did. Whenever the village had any fundraisers or charitable activities, my grandmother would be the first to participate.

My grandmother passed away peacefully at the age of 91, on a day in November. As the year draws to a close, I find myself missing her more and more.

Đoàn Hạnh

I was leisurely cycling through the quiet countryside roads, the early summer sun starting to soften just a little. Suddenly, I heard the gentle lullaby drifting from a hammock tied beneath the bamboo grove along the road. The rhythmic, soothing sound of the lullaby mixed with the wind, spreading across the tranquil village evening. The woman singing to her grandchild wasn't young anymore, but her voice still carried such sweetness, evoking a sense of nostalgia and subtle melancholy in me, the traveler passing by. Her lullaby was sung with the familiar melody of traditional folk rhymes, rising and falling in pitch, with each note gently fading like thin smoke. The wind carried the melody, making it travel farther into the warm, golden afternoon. I paused my bike, standing still not just to rest but to absorb the comforting sound of that lullaby, which I hadn't heard in so long. Sunbeams continued to dance on the empty village road, while the wind rustled the bamboo leaves. My heart tightened as I listened to the familiar song, the voice of my grandmother softly echoing through the air. I tilted my head back, letting the sky open up and flood my senses with her song, filling the space where my longing for her resided. Years ago, my grandmother had sung this same lullaby to us.

“Au ... oy...

The cuckoo eats the seeds of the mulberry tree

Swallows them, afraid they’re bitter, spits them out, and laughs…”

We grew up to the rhythm of her lullabies. From the moment we were born, these sweet sounds have lingered in my heart, following me even now. My grandmother sang to us so that our mother could tend to the fields. Her lullabies didn’t sound like the northern lullabies with their long, drawn-out melodies, nor were they as sweet and dramatic as those from the southern folk tunes. Her lullabies swayed with a rhythm, slow and fast, as the hammock swayed gently. Our eyes would gradually close as we drifted into sleep, unaware of the passing time. “Au... oy... tomorrow we’ll walk through the garden, young fruits for pickling, old ones for preserving, we’ll make pickled vegetables for three meals, and the neighbor will come with a bowl to buy them…” Grandma’s lullabies didn’t start with a soft ‘ah… oy…’ or ‘hời…’ like other lullabies. Instead, she would start with ‘ô hôi… ố hồi…’ or ‘ầu…ơ...’. These simple, rustic words were so captivating in their simplicity, almost magical, as they lured us to sleep. We would doze off on the coconut-fiber hammock, and the lullaby would continue, rocking us gently from one child to the next. The lullaby, tender and slow, blended with the warmth of the sun and the whispers of the wind, gently embedded in us the deeper meanings of life and love, the struggles of existence, and the wisdom of life’s philosophies. Grandma’s voice filled our souls as we grew, and though we moved far from home, her lullabies stayed with us, echoing in our hearts.

The hammock, worn smooth by time, creaked and swayed with each gentle push, carrying us off to sleep under the warmth of the sun. The lullaby continued, soft and soothing, as it blended with the sounds of the afternoon – the rooster’s calls, the hum of cicadas, and the rhythm of life that kept us rooted in our childhood. Her voice remained timeless, nestled in the creaks of the hammock, the rustle of bamboo, and the warm breeze. Time passed, but the lullaby, like a sacred thread, wove its way through our memories.

“In the evening, I remember the evening,”

“Hundreds of tangled threads, hundreds of burdens to bear,”

“In the evening, I remember the evening,”

“Remember the noble man with the turban on his shoulder.”

Her lullabies were more than just songs. They were expressions of the hardships and resilience of the women from our region, often steeped in local proverbs, echoing the struggles of the people who lived under the harsh conditions of the central coastal lands. These lullabies, sung by my grandmother to her grandchildren, were more than just songs; they were messages of loyalty, endurance, and the quiet acceptance of the woman’s role in a time and place where their lives were shaped by the land.

“Au... oy... One day, no one should forsake another,”

“Only embroidery on silk, only iron sharpening steel,”

“Gold, silver, iron, copper,”

“Who buys the thread for mending clothes for me…”

These were the unspoken concerns of a generation of women, carried only in the lullaby, passed down from one generation to the next. Her voice, gentle and rhythmic, seemed to say, “Sleep well, dear child, grow strong so I can rest, so your parents can worry less.”

“One person bears seven, bears three,”

“Worries about late blooming flowers, about a love lost too soon,”

“With love, someone will come for you,”

“Without love, you’ll go alone, come back alone.”

In the lullaby’s world, the joys and sorrows of the past were brought to life in a series of tender melodies. In a time when there were few ways to preserve these emotions, they were passed on through lullabies. Every song carried a bittersweet melody, leading us into a dream world filled with fields of rice, mulberry trees, and quiet gardens. It was a world where children, before drifting off to sleep, would absorb the struggles and joys of life, the sacrifices, and even the playful exchanges of everyday life. My grandmother’s lullaby was the bridge that connected us to a world that existed long before us, a world of beauty, hardship, and wisdom.

The lullabies my grandmother sang, which I thought had been forgotten in this modern age, echoed once more in the breeze, on this warm summer afternoon. Nowadays, it seems that young mothers no longer know these songs. I can't help but feel both amused and sad when I see young parents playing modern music for their children on phones. No technology can replace the touch, breath, and lullaby of a mother or grandmother. It’s the most soothing lullaby for children, and it’s also the first spiritual nourishment for their hearts.

Sadly, the tradition is fading away. Young mothers, please learn to sing these lullabies, so that your children can begin their lives with these timeless, simple words passed down through the generations.

3-5-2022

Bùi Duy Phong

In the past, when I lived with my grandmother, there were always so many celebrations for Tet: New Year (both Lunar and Solar), Mid-Year Festival, and Lantern Festival. Even though we were poor, she always managed to make sure we celebrated all of them. We might not have had a lot, but we still had Tet.

My parents were often away, and sometimes they couldn't return for Tet. Near the time for the Kitchen Gods to ascend to heaven, when the market day coincided, my grandmother was busy preparing. Before the sun rose, while we were still asleep, she hurried to gather a few areca nuts, betel leaves, or pomelos, and bananas from the garden. The bananas were cut the evening before and carefully arranged in baskets. The early morning light hadn’t yet appeared, but she was already on her way. On her way back, she stopped by the butcher’s to buy some pork fat, wrapped tightly in banana leaves. It’s a strange habit in my village—whether raw or cooked, everything is wrapped in banana leaves.

She washed the fat, sliced it thinly, then fried it until it melted into pork oil. She set the crispy bits aside to make dipping sauce for bánh đúc (Vietnamese rice cake). The oil was poured into a bottle, and in the heat of summer, it was liquid, but by Tet, it hardened into snow-white chunks, stored in a food container. When she cooked, she would scoop out a little at a time, melt it, and then wait until it cooled without clumping. She would quickly smear it onto banana leaves or mix it with rice flour to make bánh đúc.

On the day my parents returned, it was also the first day my grandmother made the first batch of bánh đúc for the year. She soaked the rice overnight, and by midday, my father took the large stone mortar out from the corner of the yard and cleaned it thoroughly. Once done, she scooped the soaked rice into the mortar. Each time my father turned the mortar, she would push the rice down with her hand. I would run around helping her fetch water, and my sister Lan sat at the kitchen door, carefully peeling peanuts. The peanuts, plump and glossy, were saved from the last harvest, each one looking so inviting.

When the peanuts were ready, it was time for the grinding. My sister put them into a small cast-iron pot to boil, while my father went out to cut bamboo sticks to make chopsticks for cooking the cakes. My mother brought a large bundle of firewood that my sister had gathered the evening before to start the fire. My grandmother added a bit of pork fat and some lime water into the flour, then poured in the boiled peanuts and flour into a large cast-iron pot to begin cooking. She always told us that to make bánh đúc, you had to stir constantly to prevent the flour from clumping, burning, or becoming too thick. While the mixture was still liquid, she would stir, but as it began to thicken, my mother took over the stirring since my grandmother’s hands were weak. As the batter turned translucent, the bánh đúc was done, just as my sister returned with the firewood.

The most exciting moment was when the bánh đúc was finished. My father spread clean banana leaves on a large tray, greasing them with a little pork fat to prevent the cakes from sticking. He tilted the pot and, with quick hands, my grandmother spread the mixture evenly, making sure there were no thick or thin spots.

While waiting for the cakes to cool, my mother prepared the dipping sauce. At our house, we always had a jar of fermented soybean paste that my grandmother had stored by the starfruit tree. My mother sautéed onions and pork fat for fragrance, then poured in the soybean paste. The mixture sizzled in the hot oil, filling the air with a savory scent, while the sound delighted the senses. She added a bit of MSG to perfect the flavor before transferring it into a bowl.

I was always the pickiest eater in the family. Even though the aroma of the sauce made my mouth water, I wasn’t fond of it. My mother, who worked so hard, ground up some of the leftover peanuts my sister had peeled, chopped the crispy pork fat saved from the previous day, sautéed some onions, then added the peanuts and crispy bits, seasoning it with fish sauce and MSG to taste. Within a few minutes, the dipping sauce was ready—rich and fragrant.

Once the dipping sauce was done, the bánh đúc had cooled enough. My grandmother used a small knife to cut the cakes into bite-sized pieces. The whole family gathered around the tray, and I picked up a piece of cake, chewy and packed with peanuts, then dipped it generously in the rich sauce. I closed my eyes as I savored the soft texture of the rice cake, the nutty flavor of the peanuts, and the fragrant pork fat. In the stove, the fire crackled and sparked, filling the kitchen with warmth, chasing away the coldness of the days leading up to Tet.

Life moves on and changes with each passing day, but sometimes, in the alleyways and corners of the city, I still hear the familiar cry of vendors selling bánh đúc, calling out, 'Bánh đúc here, hot bánh đúc!' It takes me back, and I can almost hear my grandmother’s voice, the memory of her fading silhouette in the afternoons before Tet, when the last golden rays of sunlight stretched long across her hunched back. She would chew betel and gently wake my father to grind the rice for the bánh đúc. I remember her quick hands teaching me and my sister Lan how to peel peanuts, showing us how to do it quickly without hurting our hands. All those sweet memories are wrapped up in the delicious taste of bánh đúc, a treat filled with my grandmother’s love, a happiness I long to stay in forever.

As time goes by, I still often wander the streets, searching for a bit of that old, familiar feeling. Sometimes, I find a spot under the old banyan tree, with a few broken pieces of wood along the sidewalk. I sit there, slowly enjoying a piece of bánh đúc, letting the taste of childhood melt on my tongue. It brings both happiness and a touch of sadness.

Author: Nguyễn Thị Hồng

All that remains is the betel container
Grandmother has gone with the mist, no more chewing betel.
Lê Đình Tiến

Grandmother quickly finished her meal, set down her chopsticks, and got up. Her trousers rolled up and holding a lantern in one hand and a cane in the other, she rushed to meet my eldest sister, who was returning home late from school. It was only 7 PM, but the village road was dark, with thick trees and dense bamboo groves. The end of the month had arrived, and the sky was pitch-black without any moon or stars.

My village was full of bamboo. It grew by the entrance to our house or near the pond, which every house had—either in the front or the back. In the summer, bamboo provided shade and became a play area for children. But at night, without electricity, the village was eerily quiet, and the roads empty, except for those with urgent matters. (Oil lamps were only used for studying at night, and back then, kids didn’t have much homework, so most of it was done in the afternoon to save on oil!) The wind would make the bamboo stalks creak and sway, causing an unsettling noise that could frighten anyone with a nervous disposition.

But none of this bothered my grandmother. She walked alone down the pitch-black road, calling for her grandchild from afar.

Our district only had one high school, and it was miles away, which made travel difficult for my sister, despite our parents buying her a shiny new blue Phoenix bike. That year, the floodwaters were so high that the embankment around our village seemed safe, but opening the Ba Xuan Dam to drain the water prevented any flooding. After the water receded, the roads were so muddy that my sister walked to school to avoid getting the bike dirty, making her return late. My grandmother, worried, couldn’t sit still and decided to go out to fetch her.

When they arrived home, my grandmother explained that she had been bitten by something on her hand. My mother quickly checked and was horrified to find bite marks from a snake. Without delay, she grabbed an old bike inner tube, cut it into strips, and tightly tied my grandmother's hand (this was to prevent the venom from reaching her heart). After that, my mother instructed the rest of us to keep an eye on my grandmother while she went to find medicine.

After about five minutes, my grandmother’s hand started turning purple, probably from the pain, and she grimaced in agony. She turned to my siblings and said, 'I’m probably not going to die from the snake, but from this tight band around my wrist!' As soon as I heard her mention death, I burst into tears: 'Grandmother, you can’t die! If you die, who will take care of us?' I was only 4 or 5 years old, the youngest, and in my eyes—no, in the eyes of all my siblings—our grandmother was a saint, and saints couldn’t die. So, I cried and wailed uncontrollably, like she was really about to pass away, which made my older sister cry along with me. It became a chain reaction, and soon my brothers and sisters were all in tears, hugging my grandmother tightly. Despite the hot August night, my grandmother continued to fan herself with a bamboo fan, trying to shoo us away so we wouldn’t suffocate her with our closeness! After a while, my second sister began arguing with my oldest sister, blaming her for the situation, saying that it was her fault Grandma was close to dying and that she should take responsibility.

My eldest sister, who was gentle and often let her younger siblings take the lead, couldn’t say much and just sobbed, trying to explain that she hadn’t asked Grandma to go out—she went on her own! The crying and the arguments made it hard to bear, and eventually, my grandmother said: 'Well, since I’m going to die anyway, can you take this damn band off so I can breathe easier?' Feeling sorry for her, my sisters quickly removed the rubber band just as my mother returned with the medicine. It turned out that the medicine wasn’t anything special—it was just papaya root and water spinach, which grew abundantly in our garden. I asked my oldest sister why Mom had to run all over the village for it, and she scolded me for being so ignorant: 'How could you not know? If Mom didn’t go, who would know the remedy? You’re such a fool!' She added something about 'foolish as a fence post,' but at the time, I had no idea what that meant, so I just stayed quiet!

That night, I slept with my mother while my other sisters stayed with Grandma. In the morning, when I woke up, I found that Grandma was already up and busy in the garden. We didn’t know if it was the medicine or if the snake wasn’t venomous, but we were all relieved and happy to see Grandma still with us. My oldest sister promised the family not to come home late again, fearing that next time, a truly venomous snake might bite. And there were plenty of poisonous snakes around, especially the green pit vipers near the thorny fences! I proudly announced, although I had never actually seen one, that I had heard the adults talking about them.

Grandmother has passed on, and now, 24 years later, we are preparing for her death anniversary. The memories of her will never fade, and the love we shared will always stay with us.

Vy Doan Thi

Throughout the year, the four seasons—Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter—each bring their own unique beauty. I love them all, as each season is tied to cherished memories of my beloved grandmother.

When I was younger, I didn’t pay much attention to the changing seasons. In my vague childhood memories, Spring only truly began when I saw the peach tree my grandmother planted bloom with vibrant red flowers. Spring meant the Tet holiday was near, and my siblings and I would wear our new clothes to celebrate.

I recognized Winter by the cold. It was so cold that I would sleep in my thick quilt and still feel the chill. At night, I would snuggle into my grandmother’s arms in the old straw mattress, listening to her hum lullabies and tell stories, even though the cold still lingered. I never understood why, every night, she would sing a sorrowful tune: 'My love, why have you forsaken me? I'm like cold rice when I hunger...'

Her voice carried such sadness, and even though I didn’t fully understand the lyrics, the melancholy melody would lull me to sleep. Even decades later, she would still hum those same lines. Perhaps it was the only way for her to express the pain of a woman who had worked tirelessly for her family, only to be let down by her husband.

I looked forward to Summer because that meant no school. What joy it was to spend afternoons running barefoot on the dikes, flying kites, picking flowers, and chasing butterflies in the calm river. My fondest memories are of those rainy afternoons when the kids in my village would play in the rain, chasing crickets and grasshoppers. After the rain, each of us would have our glass bottles filled to the brim with crickets and grasshoppers. My grandmother would fry them with lemon leaves, and that night’s meal would be filled with the delicious flavor of the countryside.

But perhaps my favorite season was Autumn. I loved Autumn not because of the cool breeze or the crisp air, nor the fragrance of new rice or the jasmine flowers that dropped onto the doorstep; not even because of the golden leaves that fluttered down, stirring the hearts of poets. For me, Autumn was simply the season that made me think of my grandmother the most.

I remember those Autumn mornings when the darkness still lingered in the air, when the dew was still heavy on the banana leaves, and my grandmother was already up. I would see her silhouette near the pond, wearing her faded brown shirt patched with several pieces of fabric and short pants rolled up to her calves as she waded through the water to gather water plants for the pig feed. I would follow her, still half asleep, rubbing my eyes and asking, 'Grandmother, why are you up so early?' She would reply that she was preparing the pig feed and cooking breakfast for me before I went to school, and that she had to go harvest rice afterward. She told me to go back to sleep, that I didn’t need to wake up so early, but her actions—chopping water plants and vegetables, and the scent of corn and sweet potatoes mingled with the smoke from her kitchen—made it impossible for me to fall asleep again.

I would light a lamp and do my homework, with the sweet smell of ripe fruit and the fragrance of roses and orchids she grew in the garden surrounding me. Through the small window, I would see her moving from task to task, scooping pig feed into bowls to cool, hanging laundry to dry, and then quickly heading to the fields to harvest rice, carrying her sickle and basket. Before leaving, she would always remind me to finish my studies, sweep the yard, feed the animals, have breakfast, and head to school on time. Even before the sun had fully risen, she had already completed more work than I could imagine.

It always struck me as strange that, despite waking up so early and working so late, my grandmother never took an afternoon nap. She was constantly working, from sorting rice, threshing, grinding, to sifting… she never stopped. At night, by the soft light of the oil lamp, she would weave bundles of golden rice straw into brooms to sell.

Autumn always came to me gently like that, and I loved it. I loved Autumn, and I loved the golden garden filled with fruit and fragrant flowers that my grandmother tended to. There was the guava tree at the pond corner, laden with ripe fruit. The guavas would sway in the golden Autumn sun. There was the sweet-smelling custard apple tree with its round, golden fruits. 'Oh, custard apples, fall for Grandma, so I can smell you but not eat you,' I would chant each time we picked the fruit. And when I held the custard apples in my hands, I would gently sniff their sweet fragrance that lingered in the air. My grandmother was so skilled with her hands, and she always spoiled me. Every Autumn, she would weave small baskets for me out of yarn to hold the fragrant custard apples. I would hang the baskets by the window or in my study corner. The sweet aroma of the custard apples filled the room and my childhood, and it lingers with me to this day. That’s why every time I see ripe custard apples for sale at the market, my heart aches with memories of my childhood and my grandmother. My clothes, my meals... everything came from the hardworking hands of my grandmother during these fruitful seasons.

When Autumn arrived in August, the fruits in my grandmother’s garden would be heavy with the scent of ripe fruit. I would hear the rustling of leaves, and my heart would be full of memories of her. With longing, I would softly call out, 'Grandmother, Autumn is here!'

Đào Ngọc Hà

Without her, the sun no longer tries to coax the flowers into blooming, and the once lush green morning glory vines by the wall now fade and wither, clinging to time’s passing shadows as if silently calling out, 'Grandmother, where are you?' I stand there, dazed, leaning against the gate, where I once waited for her to return from the fields each evening. Now, the moss grows thick, its green creeping up, leaving traces of time’s deepening hue.

Back then, the midday sun smiled brightly, casting a shimmering heat that seemed to dance with the dragonflies. The trees stood motionless, unmoved by the breeze, while the earth beneath my feet curved with the sun’s weight. Even the sparrows hid, no longer chirping in the heat. The summer wind curled and hid in the shade, whispering its story… In the fields, my grandmother continued weeding the rice plants. The fish and the crabs, the snails—they all sought refuge, hiding from the blazing sun.

As the sun lowered, its rays pierced through the rice plants, following the trail of my grandmother’s footsteps, burning the top of my head and making my shoulders ache. The scent of mud rising from the fields seemed to silently wish for a good harvest that year. Then, my grandmother would pause, sitting under the bamboo grove by the village edge, seeking a moment’s rest, while the sun’s warmth still clung to the trees. The wide sky stretched on, the clouds floating lazily above. My grandmother, like all the mothers of the village, was tireless, working from dawn to dusk, nurturing, loving, and sacrificing. Thanks to her, the lives of her children and grandchildren are what they are today, shaped largely by her care and teachings.

My childhood wasn’t blessed with the presence of my parents as many other children had. From the age of four, I was separated from them. It seemed as though heaven understood my loneliness and compensated for it by letting me live a joyful and happy childhood with my grandparents. My grandmother’s image is etched deeply in my heart and mind. Sometimes, when I miss her, I find myself whispering, 'Grandmother…!' in my heart.

I remember those warm summer afternoons, drifting off to sleep with the sharp scent of her betel leaves lingering in the air beside my hammock. The soft breeze from her pandan fan, mixed with her lullabies, would gently rock me to sleep. 'Hush now… a stork, a white crane, in the old folk song, fell into the pond because it landed on a soft branch…'

Growing up with my grandmother’s lullabies, I remember her bent figure in the mornings of winter, tending the warm stove where the embers were banked, roasting yams and cassava for me. Her voice would call me from the kitchen, rising through the stairs, slipping through the narrow cracks of the walls, softly reaching the room where I was wrapped up in my blanket. I would stretch like a kitten, jump out of bed, and run to her.

Once, I went with my grandmother to the fields to pull weeds. In the evening rain, she pointed to the sky and said, 'Look, a rainbow! You should make a wish, my child. When you grow up, it will come true!' I quietly responded, 'I want to build you a big, beautiful house when I grow up.'

She laughed and teased, 'Oh, you and your big dreams! By the time you grow up, I won’t be here to live in that house!' She scolded me with affection, and then smiled brightly at my innocent words. Another time, after returning from the fields on a hot summer noon, her towel was soaked with sweat. I followed her to the pond, watching her cool her face with the fresh water, while her cheeks still glowed from the heat. I felt pity for her and wished the ripples in the water could take the sun away, to make her feel less weary.

Tonight, I stand at the edge of the village again, but she is no longer there. The countryside path seems emptier now. I remember the smell of her betel leaves and the lime she used to wrap them. Her old black scarf, her brown shirt worn with age, but still brought out each Spring to be dyed again by the pond. All these years, she saved everything for others, never buying anything for herself. I miss her scolding me lovingly, 'What’s wrong with your clothes? Is the food good enough?' I still remember the sight of her frail figure, carrying the rice seedlings, embodying the soul of the Spring harvest in the fading evening light.

Summer has come to my homeland. The vast golden fields are stretched out, and I feel the warm breeze from my grandmother’s hammock, rocking me as it did many years ago. I sense the bittersweet feeling of summer, wrapped in nostalgia, mixing with the echoes of days long gone. My heart aches, my eyes misty as I remember her—so long gone. I rush to the Luoc River dike, the place where my grandmother used to take me to fly kites in the summer. The river is still there, flowing quietly.

The river seems to mourn, its waters reddened with sadness… I quickly run back to my grandmother’s old house. The rainwater tank still stands, but the cool, refreshing water of summer is gone. Without her, the two betel palms by the house hang limp, their fruits never blooming. The once-vibrant morning glory vines she nurtured now wither by the wall, a silent testament to time’s passing, as if whispering her name—'Grandmother….'

Lost in thought, I lean against the gate, where I once watched her return from the fields at dusk. The moss grows freely now, its green covering the gate, as time’s shadow darkens over it. Life gave me a grandmother and the summers I shared with her. We traveled so far together. But why couldn’t we go the final stretch together? When the time comes, we must part… Grandmother, I miss you!

I hold in my hands the summer of my grandmother, the summer she carried my childhood with her… Now all that remains is the love she left behind.

Lê Minh

In its childhood, the greatest joy was accompanying its grandmother to the market!

Since its parents were often away for work, the grandmother looked after the two siblings. Children from its village were never used to sleeping in. At the break of dawn, as soon as the rooster's crow had faded, the grandmother would gently rub its cheek and say, “Bống, wake up and go to the market with me,” before calling its older brother to carry the baskets. Four or five baskets of ripe fruit, each weighing over twenty kilograms, were stacked on her head, with an oversized bag slung over her shoulder. With eyes half-closed, it would rush to the ground, wash its face quickly, greet its brother, and then follow its grandmother, tugging at her sleeve. As they stepped out of the alley, it would look around to see if the neighborhood kids were watching, pretending, “I’m going to the market with my grandma…”

Its hometown was a riverside orchard village, where fruits hung heavy all year round. The villagers would always bring their harvests to the market. The evening before, its grandmother would skillfully pick ripe fruit from the trees, tying it into a large bag. When the bag was full, she would carefully lower it to the ground, and it would quickly gather the fruits into a basket. The air was filled with the sweet scent of fruits, and the cheerful sounds of birds chirping. Sometimes, while it was busy picking fruit, it would get splashed by bird droppings from above. The dog, Mực, always wagged its tail excitedly whenever it saw the grandmother preparing to go to the orchard, eagerly chasing birds and splashing around in the pond. It would retrieve the fruits that had fallen into the water, stacking them neatly on the shore. Despite the splashes of water, it would smile and laugh while collecting the fruit. The whole orchard was filled with the sounds of joy. It would chat endlessly, sharing stories from school, telling its grandmother about their neighbors, like Hồng and Bo. The grandmother, drenched in sweat but smiling, would look at her little grandchild under the tree with love, occasionally catching its anxious gaze.

In the early morning, the village was already alive with calls: “Grandmother Chung, are you going to the market?” “Sister Lan, wait for me!” People gathered in the streets, chatting happily while balancing baskets of goods on their heads. In the village, carrying things on the head was a common practice, as many paths were often flooded, and this method kept the goods safe from being damaged. The market buzzed with excitement. The fruits were all carefully arranged in baskets, each offering a unique sight and fragrance. Apples and bright green guavas sat next to bunches of dark, rough-skinned sapodillas, and clusters of fresh yellow bananas and ripe papayas. Rows of pink-red rose apples gleamed, and the sour-sweet scent of citrus filled the air. The market was a feast for the senses, where every fruit seemed to be in its prime, offering its full sweetness and charm. Everyone was friendly, haggling was minimal, and the atmosphere was always warm and welcoming. The grandmother’s booth was always a favorite, her warm nature and generous spirit meant her goods would always sell out quickly. “We have plenty to sell, so I’ll sell quickly to make sure they have something to take home for the children,” she would say. It always made it smile to see how kind and caring she was.

As they wandered around the market, there were rows of delicious traditional cakes for sale. The market was known for its variety of homemade cakes, such as sticky rice cakes, sweet cakes, and fried rice cakes. It was the cakes from their village that were famous for their quality, thanks to the local craftsmanship and the pure, fresh water from the river. Even though there was an abundance of cakes, they would always be gone by midday. The steamed rice rolls were especially popular, made fresh on-site, with thin layers of dough topped with crispy fried onions. The rolls were served with aromatic herbs and a rich dipping sauce, and customers would often sigh with pleasure after the first bite. Bánh bèo, another favorite, had a small hole in the center, filled with crispy fried onions and served with a delicate fish sauce, proving that simple, well-prepared food could bring joy. Even after a full stomach, it couldn’t help but crave more, especially from the booth selling steamed cakes wrapped in banana leaves, with savory fillings and fragrant aromas wafting through the air. The grandmother would pat it gently, saying, “Alright, alright, I’ll get some for your brother too.”

Afterward, the grandmother would grab the baskets and guide it toward the rice vendor. Rice in the village was sold in bamboo baskets, called “bơ,” each containing eight ounces. The process of measuring the rice was an amusing spectacle, with the seller carefully scooping and shaking the rice to make sure it was packed well. But despite the small fluctuations in the measurements, no one ever argued about the quantity; it was all done in a friendly and trusting manner. The grandmother would patiently wait for the vendor to finish and then, with a gentle smile, ask for a little extra. “A little more doesn’t hurt, and besides, you never know, there might be someone more in need than us,” she would always say. It listened carefully, silently thinking that one day, when it grew up, it would be just like her—fair and kind without ever haggling.

By the time they left, the market was still busy, and the sun was casting its first warm rays over the treetops. The grandmother, full of joy, walked home with bags of rice, snacks, and fish, while it skipped along, carrying the treats. As they walked back, the village was alive with the fragrance of flowers and fruits. The bright yellow jasmine flowers filled the air with their sweet fragrance, and the fields were filled with butterflies, bees, and chirping birds. The morning dew glittered on the grass, creating a fresh and cool atmosphere. The village echoed with the sounds of birds, from sparrows to warblers, all singing in harmony, filling it with life. As it thought about the coming days, excited to share these treats with its friends, the joy of spending time with its grandmother grew ever more precious. It felt full of love and gratitude, knowing that the simple moments spent with her would forever be cherished.

Following the grandmother to the market, learning from her gentle words and actions, helped shape its understanding of life. It began to appreciate the small pleasures of living in a peaceful village, surrounded by kind-hearted people. With every moment, it felt a deep connection to the land, the fruits, and the air that nourished it. There was a profound sense of belonging here, and while it dreamed of growing up to take care of its grandmother, it also wished it could remain small forever, so it could always walk beside her. A love that could never be fully expressed in words…

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