Top 10 Best Essays About Pomelo Flowers

On a spring night, wrapped in warm blankets, I inhale the fragrant breeze drifting through the cold air. I hear the gentle sound of raindrops falling on the delicate pomelo petals, soft and light… The clusters of white flowers bloom, showcasing their golden stamen, emitting a subtle fragrance that makes one want to hold on to this moment forever.

In the midst of spring, many flowers bloom in radiant colors, from bright yellow apricot flowers to peach and chrysanthemums, all attracting bees and butterflies in search of nectar. People rush to buy the most beautiful flowers for their homes.

Yet, among these, there is a flower that quietly releases its rich, soothing fragrance, scattered like white dots across the countryside, adding color to the spring landscape:

"Each spring, the sweet scent of pomelo blossoms;

White petals scatter across the yard."

Oh! The pomelo flower, a symbol of the lunar new year in my hometown. In my poor village by the Red River, with its rich red soil, we do not have the luxury of enjoying apricot or peach blossoms like city folks. So, each spring, we celebrate the Tết festival with the pomelo flowers and ripe, fragrant pomelo fruits.

The white pomelo flowers scatter across the paths, falling on the shoulders of passersby… Their fragrance fills every corner of the countryside garden. Pomelo flowers represent the love and care of the people in my village every time the new year comes… They mark a season of peace and prosperity.

During the Tết festival, no family altar is complete without the pomelo fruit placed among the five-fruit tray. The finest pomelo is harvested from the family garden, a testament to a year of care and nurturing. Alongside it, a bowl of water with fresh pomelo blossoms floats beside a cup of green tea to welcome guests, while the family gathers to share stories of the past year and plans for the year ahead.

The pomelo flower is as pure and gentle as a rural girl, its fragrance filling the air during the spring. My grandmother used to teach my aunts and me how to use pomelo petals to enhance our beauty. Every year, on the eve of Tết, she would pick pomelo flowers to brew a bath for the whole family, aiming to wash away the fatigue and dirt of the old year, welcoming the peaceful new spring.

Grandmother said that using pomelo flowers to wash your hair would make it soft and beautiful, and that's why the women in my village all have thick, shiny hair. Spring brings the scent of pomelo flowers that linger in the hair of rural girls, carried by the wind, slipping into their clothes, blending with the spring rain to warm the earth, nourishing the lush leaves. For those who have left, it stirs a longing to return home, to walk down the dirt road filled with the fragrant pomelo flowers. For those who stay, it is a sense of quiet anticipation and tenderness.

On a spring night, wrapped in warm blankets, I inhale the fragrant breeze drifting through the cold air! I hear the raindrops gently falling on the delicate, wet pomelo petals, soft and light… The clusters of white flowers bloom, showcasing their golden stamen, emitting a subtle fragrance that makes one want to hold on to this moment forever.

The pomelo in my village is nurtured by the water from the Red River, its rich silt. Therefore, the pomelo trees are always lush, and the fruits are remarkably sweet. The refreshing taste of the pomelo leaves a lasting memory. With spring comes the pomelo flower season once more. Life has become much better, yet, there are still moments when one pauses to quietly appreciate the pomelo flower while the world outside is bustling with the arrival of spring.

Over time, the pomelo flower has undergone many transformations. People now use the flowers to flavor delicious dishes, to infuse sugarcane, and make pomelo-flavored desserts during the hot summer days. They also serve as part of gourmet meals in luxury banquets…

But none of this can take away its unique essence. The earthy scent of pomelo continues to spread, adding flavor to life. It forever preserves the memories of a time of conflict and struggle.

Spring arrives, and the girl sends her beloved off to war with a pomelo blossom tucked in his hair. My grandmother and mother still gather the pomelo flowers to pin in their hair. Even for those of us who have flown far from home, whenever spring calls from afar, we long to return to the pomelo-filled garden of our village…

T.N.L

Thao Nguyen Le

March. The month of flowers and leaves. A time of sweetness, fragrance, and clarity. After spring rains cover the fields, meadows, and villages, the grass turns lush and green, and the branches are full of new buds. And flowers bloom. Flowers from the ground, flowers hanging in mid-air... Flowers in vibrant red, gentle purple, modest little clusters, and those quietly tucked away beneath the leaves... Even without displaying vibrant colors, their fragrance captivates the soul, pulling you in, holding your gaze... These are the pomelo flowers of March.

It seems few people notice when the pomelo buds first appear. Perhaps it's when the pomelo fruit swings gently, awaiting the Lunar New Year, or when the tree is fruitless, and the bare branches, drenched in spring's warmth, begin to sprout new shoots... I only know that in the breath of spring, the gentle, pure fragrance of pomelo flowers spreads through the air, filling the streets of the village. The scent brings back memories of childhood, lost somewhere in the hustle and bustle of life...

The fragrance of pomelo flowers is tied to my childhood—difficult yet beautiful. Those spring mornings in the earthen house with round windows, where my siblings and I would compete to look out at the garden. The rain fell gently on the leaves, each drop dancing as it fell, shining with fresh green. After catching raindrops, we would breathe in the garden's scent. The garden at my grandparents' house, like many others in the village, grew a variety of plants: a lychee tree, a longan tree, a jackfruit tree, and a couple of pomelo trees, among others. The lychee and longan were also in bloom, but their flowers were modest in both color and scent. Only the pomelo flowers stood out—delicate white petals, golden stamens, and a fragrance so enchanting. As the green buds turned white, the flowers bloomed elegantly, bending downward. The pomelo tree became covered in white flowers, swaying gently like clouds. My sibling and I, two mischievous children, would steal the flowers, make garlands, and wear them as “flower princesses,” a dream shared by many children. But after one night, the flowers would wilt, and we would regret, “If only we had left the flowers on the tree.” Even though the flowers faded, their fragrance lingered. My sister would then preserve the flowers to make pomelo flower perfume, hoping to keep the scent forever... Those childhood days, those dreams, and hopes were like the pomelo flowers—pure, serene, and etched into the soul for life. At some point, life’s chaos obscured them, but just a hint of pomelo fragrance would bring everything back, fresh and vivid.

The fragrance of pomelo flowers is also tied to my present life. In the crowded city, it’s hard to find a pomelo tree to care for, admire, and breathe in its fragrance. It's easier to buy it. On early spring mornings, baskets of pomelo flowers beckon, their fragrance carried by the spring breeze. The flowers are sold by weight, either in plastic bags or, more simply, wrapped in banana leaves. But once picked, pomelo flowers lose their freshness and fragrance quickly. Fortunately, I have a pomelo tree planted in a pot on my third-floor balcony. I get to see its tender shoots, watch the buds grow, and enjoy the sight of fresh white flowers, breathing in their intoxicating scent. And then, the small fruit begins to form, growing heavy on the branches—a complete cycle of a year... On leisurely days, as I gaze at the flowers, I feel my soul being cleansed, lightened, and rejuvenated, just like the branches soaking in the spring air.

March. The sky is clear and bright. March. Flowers spread their petals, releasing their fragrance... A delicate scent that subtly carries hidden emotions of love and longing. The pomelo flowers of March.

Phuong Thao

In March, the streets seem awakened by the sweet fragrance of pomelo flowers carried by bicycles riding from Phu Dien through Cau Giay and into the inner city.

Few people know that in the early 19th century, Hanoi had suburban villages stretching along the banks of the To Lich River, extending all the way to the vast West Lake.

In addition to farming rice, growing flowers, and making paper, the villages also specialized in baking various types of cakes such as bánh khảo, bánh dẻo, and oản bột for worshipping during the full moon or the Tết holidays. An essential ingredient for making these cakes was pomelo flower water.

After the first full moon of the Lunar New Year, families with pomelo trees would begin distilling flower water. Since the bloom lasts only a few weeks, they would rush to harvest the flowers to capture their strongest fragrance.

The pomelo flowers used for distilling fragrance usually came from old, mature trees. The small petals released a rich aroma. It was important to harvest the flowers on dry, sunny days, as rainy weather would cause the scent to fade.

My grandmother and I would go to the garden to pick flowers before the sun even touched the street. We carefully chose flowers that were just beginning to open, as my grandmother insisted that unripe buds would make the scent bitter, while overripe flowers would be sour.

The pomelo branches stretched out over the roof of the house, exposed to the sun, and the flowers bloomed thick and white. Bees busily gathered nectar from the stamens, covering themselves in golden pollen. By late morning, we had filled a basket with flowers.

Before distillation, the flowers were left to “rise” for the fragrance to become more intense. The family would also add a few herbs, known only to the experienced, to ensure the scent lasted. For this step, my grandparents would rely on their friends on Hang Duong Street, experts in cake-making, to help with the process.

The traditional distillation equipment was a large clay pot, though in our home, we used a smaller wooden chõ to distill the flowers from one basket.

Before distilling, we would gently sprinkle water over the petals. Hot sand would be placed under the pot, and the heat would cause the flowers to release their fragrance, which would condense into droplets on the clear lid. The first 45 minutes produced a concentrated essential oil, perfect for making traditional cakes like bánh khảo, bánh dẻo, or bánh su sê. After that, the fragrance would gradually weaken, suitable for use in desserts like chè.

The firewood stove burned slowly and evenly, with the fragrance of the flowers filling the air, soaking into my grandmother’s silk robe and velvet scarf. On days when several families were distilling flowers together, the whole neighborhood would be immersed in the delicate, clean scent of pomelo blossoms. Every 10 kilograms of petals distilled with sand would yield 2 kilograms of pomelo flower water, and distilling with water would produce up to 15 kilograms. This method, often used by vendors on Hang Bo Street, results in a lighter fragrance, while some cheaper pomelo flower water is synthetic, imported from China.

Once the distillation was complete, the fragrant water would be poured into a copper basin, along with a few buckets of rainwater used for washing hair or bathing, leaving the hair smooth and the skin soft. The natural scent lingered in the air, soothing and pleasant.

I can never forget the Lunar New Year day, when the fresh scent of pomelo flowers filled the bánh trôi and bánh chay on the food tray. When my grandmother opened the packaging of bánh khảo, the roasted rice flour combined with the pomelo fragrance would tempt me to take a bite, with the sweet, refreshing flavor melting away in the scent of the flowers.

I remember how my grandmother would treat guests by offering various cakes and desserts after a meal, with each type of chè adapted to the season’s flavors, like lotus seed chè with lotus flowers, green bean chè with pomelo flowers, black bean chè with jasmine, or glutinous rice chè with betel flowers.

She would lay a thin sheet of paper on a metal tray and scatter a layer of flowers over it. Then, she would carefully arrange small bowls of chè, half-filled with flowers, and leave them to soak in the dew overnight. The next morning, she would serve the chè, and just a few spoonfuls would release a fragrant aroma, as if I were walking through a flower garden. The smell of sunshine, rain, and dew merged with the soil, creating a delightful fragrance in every bowl of chè.

Whenever we went to the market, my grandmother would wear her silk áo mỡ gà, with satin pants brushing the ground and carry a basket filled with bánh khảo and silk-wrapped chè Thai, infused with lotus flowers, as gifts for her in-laws. If it was pomelo flower season, there would always be a fresh bottle of essential oil with a powerful, sweet scent.

Many years have passed, and the village has become part of the city, and the pomelo garden is slowly disappearing. But every time March comes, with the drizzling rain, I remember my grandmother... I remember the fragrant memories of those pomelo flowers. It makes me wonder:

“Where have the people from long ago gone?”

Collected by

In the lush garden, pomelo flowers quietly embrace a pure white color. Their delicate white petals wrap around the soft yellow of the stamen. This simple yet rustic beauty captures the hearts of city dwellers who find it irresistible.

Our house has a small garden at the back. Though small, my mother planted a variety of plants, each with its unique charm. That garden holds all the memories of my childhood. And now, when the spring air still lingers, the garden is once again filled with the fragrant pomelo blossoms.

My mother told me that the pomelo trees were a gift from an uncle of my father’s. When they were first planted, the trees were tiny, about the height of me when I was six or seven years old. But thanks to my mother’s care, the trees have grown large enough to shade a corner of the garden. Now, the trunks are thicker than my wrist. In March, when the weather warms, the pomelo buds bloom into clusters of flowers. These flowers don’t boast bright reds, oranges, or purples, but instead choose a serene white among the lush green of the garden. The soft white petals protect the yellow stamen inside. This simple beauty has a quiet, poignant charm that often causes city dwellers to pause when they catch a glimpse of a vendor selling pomelo flowers. Gentle and lingering, the scent of the pomelo flower tugs at the heart, carrying with it a natural, soothing fragrance that reminds one of a distant countryside.

The scent evokes childhood memories that suddenly come rushing back. As a child, we played a game of bride and groom, with the bride’s hair adorned with pomelo flowers. The sound of children’s laughter echoed beneath the pomelo trees during the blooming season. Since ancient times, pomelo flowers were used by mothers and older sisters to wash their hair, giving it a smooth, gentle fragrance. The elderly would also use pomelo flowers to scent tea, a delicate process, but the result was always rewarding. On a quiet morning, sipping tea infused with pomelo flowers among the sounds of chirping birds in the garden would bring a sense of peace and relaxation.

When I return home after a long time away, I always go to that garden corner to enjoy the breeze and admire the lush greenery of the mango, orange, and pomelo trees. It’s especially refreshing when I come home in the pomelo blooming season. Stepping into the garden early in the morning, the air is filled with a fragrance that’s both gentle and intense. Dew still clings to the pure white petals of the flowers. The unbloomed buds are slightly green, hiding shyly in the thin mist, standing out against the deep green of the leaves.

The scent of pomelo in the garden, though simple, has stayed with me through the years. Its pure white reminds me of my mother, who tirelessly cares for the garden each day. Every pomelo blossom, every fruit that hangs heavy with the passing seasons, is the result of my mother’s dedication, a gift she has nurtured for her children and grandchildren. The small garden, soaked in love, is a place where the pomelo fragrance of March softly weaves through the branches, and where my mother’s warm embrace, full of the scent of sun and rain, has always been a place of comfort and peace for me.

Phong Dương

When I was 10 years old, our family garden had a large pomelo tree. It was a sour pomelo tree, known in the neighborhood for its abundant and delicious fruit. My grandmother often told us that my grandfather had planted it many years ago. By the time I was born, the tree’s trunk had grown thick, rough, and covered in moss. When the tree was tall enough to reach head height, it split into three large branches that spread out in different directions. As a result, my siblings and I each claimed a branch to climb and play on. We all loved the tree, and whenever we had free time, we’d be there, picking off pests, trimming off the parasitic mistletoe, and watering it to make sure it stayed green and healthy.

In March, the old pomelo tree in our garden seemed to rejuvenate. The spring rain gently fell, and new buds eagerly popped out, catching the fresh, sweet rain. The tree, once tired and worn during the cold winter, was now full of life. Its branches were soon covered in clusters of vibrant green buds. It felt as though the pomelo tree had made a pact with March, as it shed its old leaves and donned a new coat with each passing day. Just yesterday, the buds were still shy and tight, but after one night of spring rain, the tree proudly displayed its bright green new leaves. The first pomelo flowers bloomed, shyly showing their white petals, still partially covered by the green sepals, like a smile barely visible. The early blooms released a delicate, yet rich fragrance that filled the air. The scent of pomelo flowers in early March is incredible – faint, sweet, but intense and alluring in the warm, gentle breeze.

During the spring, I would often go with the other village children, playfully wandering through the orchards to find pomelo trees. In the early mornings, our village road would be filled with a strange, intoxicating fragrance. Everything – the sunlight, the breeze, the trees, the soil, and even the chirping of birds – seemed to carry this magical scent. For me, the joy of going out to find fallen pomelo blossoms in the early morning was something beyond words. After a night of rain, the pomelo flowers would bloom, transforming from tight buds into delicate flowers. Beneath the tree, there would be a carpet of white fallen flowers, their sweet fragrance filling the air. The scent of pomelo flowers in the morning always gave me a cool, refreshing feeling that I couldn’t find with any other flower or in any other season of the year. I would carefully gather some of the fallen flowers, place them in a jar of water, and create my own little homemade perfume. I believed it would become a fragrance of enchantment – distant yet close, imaginary yet real, just like the pomelo flowers themselves. The mischievous boys, on the other hand, never liked picking the fallen flowers like the girls did. Instead, they would climb the tree to grab the large, unripe clusters of flowers or shoot slingshots at the tree, knocking down unripe buds. They never knew how much it hurt the tree, seeing the unbloomed buds fall off prematurely.

During the flower season, my grandmother would make sure to preserve the scent of the pomelo flowers in her hair by using a special herbal wash filled with pomelo blossoms. That scent was lost to me for many years after my grandmother passed, even though I tried to find it in every shampoo and conditioner I used. When the third day of the third lunar month arrived, the sticky rice cakes she made for the Hàn Thực Festival always had the distinct fragrance of pomelo flowers. That was one of the most delicious and memorable foods from my childhood that I still cherish today.

When my grandmother passed away, the pomelo tree seemed to wither. Its leaves turned yellow and fell, leaving the tree looking desolate. During spring, the rain would come, but the buds never seemed to bloom. For the first time, there was no pomelo fragrance in the garden that spring, and it felt so quiet and sad. Concerned about the tree’s health, my siblings and I tried our best to care for it. We still picked pests, trimmed mistletoe, and fertilized it, hoping that next spring, the pomelo blossoms would fill the garden again when March arrived.

In my memory, the image of that pomelo tree in the corner of our garden always stands out. Its branches stretched far, and large ant nests hung from them, busy with brown ants coming and going. In my mind’s eye, I can still see my grandmother and I, walking through the garden, picking the freshly bloomed flowers to dry and preserve for making sweet dishes. The memory is vivid, with the green leaves, the pure white flowers, and the cheerful songs of birds in the garden. The pomelo blossoms of March were always so bright under the sun, filling the air with their wonderful fragrance.

THÁI HƯƠNG LIÊN

Spring is the season when countless flowers bloom, and among them, the pomelo blossom is one of the most beloved, known for its subtle elegance in the Quang region.

The pomelo flowers are white, with four petals that bloom in clusters. The stamen is yellow with a central round green calyx. When in bloom, the fragrance is delicate and refreshing, carried gently by a soft breeze.

Typically blooming in early March, pomelo flowers may appear as early as February in warmer weather, adorning the sweet gardens of cherished rural areas. Together with other local flowers like the lime and citron blossoms, the pomelo adds a simple yet graceful touch to the landscape, evoking calm, peaceful feelings, and deepening our love for nature and life itself.

Besides their beauty, pomelo trees have long been valued for their health benefits. For centuries, rural people have used pomelo flowers and leaves, rich in essential oils, for medicinal purposes such as steam inhalations to relieve colds. The fragrance of pomelo flowers is known to soothe the respiratory system, reduce stress, and promote clarity of mind. Additionally, the flowers are used as a natural remedy for coughs, digestive issues, headaches from fatigue, and even constipation. The essential oils derived from these flowers are also used in beauty treatments for the skin and hair, making it a popular ingredient in hair washing, bathing, and steaming.

Pomelo flowers are also featured in a variety of culinary delights, including teas, soups, cakes, and porridge. When dried, they serve as an ingredient in sophisticated dishes such as pomelo-infused sugarcane, pomelo tea, and pomelo porridge. During the flowering season, it is also the time for arrowroot powder, which is enhanced with the pomelo flower’s delicate fragrance for a refreshing taste.

One fond memory that stays with me is the time spent in Hanoi, particularly enjoying pomelo soup on Lang Ha Street. As the saying goes, “The best food is unforgettable,” and anyone who has tasted Hanoi’s pomelo soup will remember its delicate taste forever, especially during the hot summer afternoons or romantic evenings in the city.

This memory reminds me of the song “Hương Thầm,” written by composer Vũ Hoàng and inspired by the poem of Phan Thị Thanh Nhàn. One line goes: “...The pomelo tree behind the house gives off a fragrant aroma/ Hiding a bunch of flowers in a handkerchief/ The young girl hesitates to visit the neighbor/ Over there, someone is leaving for battle tomorrow/ Over there, someone is leaving far away tomorrow…”.

Pomelo, lime, and locust flowers have always been a part of my memories, reminding me of my mother and sister’s youth. Before heading into the military, I vividly remember the scent of pomelo flowers from a classmate, and the scent has stayed with me throughout my soldier's journey. It even inspired me to write a poem titled “The Memory of Pomelo’s Fragrance,” with these heartfelt lines:

Spring returns to the garden once more
Listening to the pomelo’s scent, it lingers through the day and night
The flowers scent her hair, her graceful figure
In those days of longing, dreams filled with hope
The flower’s purity remains ever white
The spirit of the flower keeps my heart noble
Quietly loving, quietly missing
Where did the scent of… the old days go…

Another spring is here in Quang, with the golden warmth and pomelo fragrance filling the air. I long to share my thoughts with the pomelo’s fragrance from those past springs when I recall the scent lingering in soft black hair, reminding me of the early stirrings of love as I entered adolescence, learning to miss, learning to love…

Võ Văn Thọ

Spring fills the village with colors and fragrances. Anyone who has grown up in the countryside can never forget the purple of the cassia flowers, the red of the cotton trees, and especially the gentle white of the pomelo blossoms in the spring. In the past, villages grew many different kinds of fruit trees. It was common to find at least one pomelo tree in every garden. When these pomelo trees bloomed, they left a deep and sweet impression in people's hearts. As spring arrived, usually around the first or second month, the pomelo trees began to bud. The buds grew in clusters, initially small, like tiny green beads. These green beads gradually became lighter, eventually turning into delicate white flowers when fully bloomed. The pomelo flowers opened gently in the breeze, like an invitation to a sweet, tender moment. The five petals of the flower were slender and white, like the delicate fingers of a maiden, opening to reveal soft, moist yellow pollen. As the flowers bloomed and the pollen became brighter, the fragrance intensified, spreading its sweet scent in the air.

The most intoxicating fragrance of the pomelo flowers was felt late at night. During their peak bloom, the flowers seemed to half-reveal themselves, hidden among the lush green leaves, gently swaying in the breeze. The pomelo blossoms could be seen along the garden walls, in the village alleys, gently swaying with the wind. The flowers adorned the hair of young girls in love, tucked into handkerchiefs, or used to scent bowls of yellow-green bean soup and fresh sugarcane sticks. They even lay on trays on the altar, mingling with the incense, or infused in the warmth of green tea served by a father’s hand.

The fragrance of pomelo flowers spread throughout the village, from the alleys to the fields and gardens. The entire village seemed to be embraced by the simple, sweet, and intoxicating scent. Sometimes, pomelo flowers were carried by the women on their baskets, crossing the bamboo gates to the town, spreading their fragrance and beauty through the streets.

I still remember the old pomelo tree by our gate. Its shade covered the narrow alley. The children of the neighborhood would often play under its shade. When spring came, the pomelo blossoms would sway on the branches, hanging close enough that we could easily reach up and pick them. The girls in the neighborhood would often sneak up, plucking the blossoms and playing games. My mother would sometimes tell them not to pick the flowers, but when she saw them doing it, she would only smile. Later, when we had grown up into young women, each spring, we would pick the flowers and tease my mother, each claiming to be her daughter-in-law. I was shy, filled with all the first emotions of youth, with my hair often adorned with pomelo flowers during the spring. Time carried us in different directions, but every spring when the pomelo flowers bloomed, those sweet, nostalgic memories returned. Although pomelo trees are no longer as widespread as before, they are still found in many rural areas. This spring, the pomelo flowers are once again blooming, inviting those who are far away to return to a fragrant past filled with memories.

Essay by NGUYỄN VĂN SONG

I was born and raised in a small village in central Vietnam, where every house had at least one pomelo tree. Pomelos were planted along fences, providing privacy and offering fruit for consumption. During the summer, the shade from the pomelo tree was a relief from the heat. As children, we would sneak away from our mothers, running under the hot sun to catch grasshoppers and hide beneath the leaves. We would gather pomelos and dip them in salt under the tree, our childhood marked by sweat and the scorching sun of the central region.

But what I always cherished was my love for the pomelo flowers—those white blossoms that emitted a sweet fragrance whenever spring arrived. My affection for them grew with each passing year. When I no longer enjoyed running under the sun with my childhood friends, it was as if the fragrance of these flowers became a close companion. I eagerly awaited spring’s arrival, hoping to see the buds bloom, holding the promise of secrets yet to be discovered by a heart longing for them.

Then, when the cold wind brushed the village and the warm sun began to bathe the land, the first pomelo blossoms started to open. One flower, two flowers... soon, clusters of blossoms appeared. These delicate petals, as small as the fingernails of a young girl, circled in perfect harmony around the bright yellow stamen. It was as if I had discovered the essence of the earth and sky, held in the invisible, yet soul-stirring fragrance of the flowers. The scent filled the morning air, so soft you could almost smell it from under the blankets. At night, the fragrance would follow the breeze, mingling with my dreams. Pomelo flowers bloomed brightly under the warm sun, and their fragrance spread even more intensely during the light spring rain. Every petal and every fragrance felt like a love letter from nature, one that lingered in the hearts of young girls.

Much like the flowers giving themselves fully to the fragrance, I too wanted to savor every moment, as if the blossoms would soon fade away. Each day, I walked to school, taking in the perfume of the pomelo flowers, watching them fall softly on the ground, carpeting the yard and the alley. As I passed my best friend Diệp’s house, walking along the fragrant road, I imagined myself as a princess, dressed in a white gown, with a crown of pomelo flowers, catching the petals as they fell, swirling in the spring breeze. I would choose the flowers with the most perfect golden stamens, cradling them in my hands and giving them to Diệp. But she would only laugh and say, “Thanks for the flowers!” She never shared my love for pomelo flowers. For me, that gentle affection for the flowers remained a secret, known only to the flowers and me.

As a child, my mother would brew a mixture of basil leaves, lemon leaves, and pomelo leaves for me to wash my hair. As I grew older, I continued this tradition, adding pomelo flowers to the water. There was nothing more delightful than the fragrance of pomelo flowers lingering in the hair of a young girl. And for some reason, I always hummed the song, “I send you the sweet fragrance of pomelo flowers. A moment for your heart to remember and cherish…”

One spring day, when the weather was cool and light rain fell, someone gave me a pomelo flower, placed my hand on their heart, and whispered, “Always remember this place.” I blushed, speechless, yet the fragrance of the pomelo flower seemed to linger in the air, filling the space with its sweetness.

Though I have been away from my hometown for a long time, the fragrance of the pomelo flower still lingers in my heart, gentle and unforgettable.

Vy Phong

The car slowed down and came to a halt. A scent filled the air, so powerful and sweet that it overwhelmed me the moment I stepped out of the vehicle. “Yes! It’s the fragrance of pomelo flowers! Oh, how delightful!” A two-year-old child, held by her mother, stared at me with wide eyes: “What is that, Mommy?” I smiled and replied, “I just love you so much.” The little one wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck, showering her with kisses. The pomelo scent trailed behind me, gentle and persistent with each step.

Another spring had arrived. I counted my years silently.

This year, the weather was capricious, with unpredictable rains and sunshine. I felt a stir in my heart as I watched the buds begin to open on the bare branches. In just a few days, they transformed into bright purple-red flames, lighting up a corner of the garden. The rice fields stretched out, lush with young shoots, while the gourd fruits ripened, hanging like lanterns, swaying proudly on their vines.

And there, the flowers I adored—white as snow—were starting to bloom. Tiny buds, nestled behind tender green leaves, were beginning to form in delicate clusters. These buds, shaped like small oval buttons, gradually grew larger, blending softly with the foliage.

The pomelo flower has five petals, white as snow. At first glance, it seems fragile, but in truth, these petals are thick and sturdy. Initially, the petals are tightly closed.

Slowly, the petals began to open, one by one, revealing the golden stamen, dusted with fine pollen, as though the spring sunlight was gently embracing it. In the center, a green stamen, wet and glistening like emerald beads, stood proud. Gradually, the five petals curved, elegant and graceful, like a young maiden unveiling her delicate beauty, her purity, and her springlike allure to the world.

As a child, I often gathered pomelo flowers with my friends, threading them into bracelets, necklaces, and crowns. What I remember most is waking up and stepping outside, only to be stunned by the sight of the garden, where pomelo flowers had blossomed all at once, from the branches to the ground. The flowers seemed to form a thick white cloud, releasing their fragrance into the air, filling the sky or gently descending into the garden. Standing quietly in the garden, I was sometimes startled by the soft breeze, which caused the flowers to fall gently to the ground or rest lightly on my hair or shoulders. The fragrance of the flowers wrapped around me, lingering in the air, caressing my lips, so sweet and intoxicating. Tiny spring raindrops clung to the pristine petals, making them sparkle with a pure, tender beauty.

In those days, my grandmother would brew a pot of water with lemon leaves, lemongrass, and pomelo leaves for us to wash our hair. During the early days of spring, she would add a handful of pomelo flowers to the mixture. Back then, my mother’s and my hair were long and black, reaching our ankles. Even my grandmother, who was 60, still had long, black hair, though a few strands of silver would appear when parted. She carefully picked pomelo flowers from the tree to add to sweet, fragrant green bean soup or to preserve in sugar cane. By the time I became a high school student, my love for pomelo flowers deepened. I adored the heartfelt, passionate, yet delicate poetry in Phan Thị Thanh Nhàn’s “Silent Fragrance.” I grew even fonder of my desk, where I kept fresh pomelo flowers whenever spring arrived. Even now, the pages of my old notebooks still carry the lingering fragrance of pomelo blossoms from those days. Every year, around March, when the earth was brimming with life, the pomelo flowers would bloom with their intense fragrance, and I would whisper my wish:

“Who will pick the pomelo flowers for me,

So the fragrance will always spread in the night,

As I wish for joy to bloom in every eye,

Each person carrying their own springtime joy.”

The pomelo flower, simple yet elegant, fragrant and passionate, continues to evoke the longing and memories of childhood, of home, family, and love. Anyone who has heard the sweet, soulful voice of singer Thu Hiền singing about this flower would surely feel a twinge of nostalgia:

“It’s not by chance that I remember March,
Remembering you, remembering the pomelo flowers,”

“The petals fall, my heart flutters,
The fragrance of the village spreads far and wide!”

Ah, the season of longing flowers!

(Hà Vinh Tâm)

The white pomelo flowers bloom in the garden, their fragrance spreading into the small alley. The sweet, gentle scent stirs the heart with memories of someone far away. The old betel tree stoops, standing by a water jar, bearing the weight of its years. The tabby cat, lonely and lost in thought, occasionally lets out a mournful meow, longing for the gentle hands of its old owner who once fed it. Missing the tender touch, the loving scoldings, the cat stays by the edge of the pond, staring at the green lily pads. It yearns for the bent form of the old lady who would throw a net to catch shrimp, tossing in a handful of fragrant fish food that would cause the fish to rush in greedily. The cat watches quietly as the old lady pulls the shrimp and small fish from the net, her hands deftly filling the basket with abundance. It meows in frustration, unable to join in, but the old lady lovingly scolds, 'No, you can't eat them raw, you'll get a stomach ache. I'll cook something for you later.'

A golden carp, caught in the net, is gently placed into the basket by the old lady, but as she gazes at it, she sighs deeply, her eyes welling with tears. She misses her husband... The years of shared labor and love return to her mind, filled with warmth. 'He worked the fields, I took care of the household,' she reminisces. During the off-season, she would make extra money by weaving baskets, always rushing home to tell him, 'Stay home and rest, I'll be back soon with some pork offal for dinner.'

The sweat-drenched rice delivery she carried home always included a small bottle of wine wrapped in banana leaves, and a package of sliced pork offal. He would smile as he accepted it, his joy like that of a child receiving a gift. Then came the fiery chili peppers, pungent fish sauce, and rice cakes she had made just for him to enjoy. Neighbors would glance in, gossiping about the woman who would wear tattered clothes just to make sure her husband had something to enjoy. 'Let them talk,' she would think, 'My husband is my responsibility, and that’s what matters.'

As the evening settled over the vast fields, the figure of the woman could still be seen laboring, her basket of shrimp and crabs in hand, heading to the market for the next day's sale. Only when the church bells rang, signaling the evening mass, would she make her way home, her steps slow, feet frozen on the cold earth. She would pass by the flooded fields, carrying the basket filled with waterlogged shrimp and fish, rushing home to her husband, who was always waiting for her with a smile and a humble meal. Despite the long hours of work, his embrace made all the fatigue fade away.

When the second month arrived and the pomelo flowers bloomed at the entrance, and the delicate sounds of love songs filled the air, he would urge her to rest from her duties, to let him gather the flowers and make her a fragrant bath. She would sit on the stool, her long hair cascading down, as he carefully washed her hair with water infused with pomelo and lime blossoms. It was a quiet, intimate moment, their love blooming with the season.

The sweet buds of spring, soft as silk, flirted with the spring breeze. The scent of pomelo filled the air, as pure and fresh as the thoughts of the woman he loved. Her beauty remained unspoiled, her kindness ever-present, as she carried on with life, nurturing her family with love and care. They were a humble family, with more yams than rice, more sweat than luxury, yet their hearts were full of warmth and affection for each other.

As the children grew and left to find their own paths, the pomelo trees stood tall in the garden, their branches now heavy with memories. She had become the pillar of strength for her husband, offering care and love in every season. Her prayers were simple—asking for good health for him, so they could continue to enjoy their days together. But he left before her, his absence leaving a gap that could never be filled. The cat now wandered the garden, meowing as it watched the fish swim freely in the pond, mourning the loss of its beloved owners.

One evening, as I visited the market, I found myself in front of a man haggling for chicken intestines. To my surprise, he was a retired officer, a familiar face from my husband's past. Luckily, with my face hidden and my dark glasses on, he didn’t recognize me. I listened quietly as he bargained, a sense of sadness settling in my heart. I thought of the days when my husband used to do the same for me. In my mind, I heard the voice of the old lady: 'Stay home, dear, I’ll be back soon from the market.'

Now she has joined him, and on the night of the storm, her funeral procession was followed by a bright, sunny morning. I told my husband about her, and he quietly murmured, 'The pomelo flowers have gone to heaven, may her soul rest in peace.'

The house is now empty, the pomelo flowers still fragrant but sad, the tabby cat crying beside the pond, longing for the old days. It curls up in the arms of the granddaughter who has returned from far away, seeking comfort. The pomelo flowers, pure and white, have returned to the heavens, leaving behind memories and a lingering fragrance that will always be cherished.

Essay by Lê Hà Ngân