Top 10 Best Essays about the First Day of School

Childhood is often considered the purest and most innocent time in a person's life. Among those innocent days, the first day of school stands out as a shining star in the hearts of every young student!

Autumn! The sun becomes softer, casting a golden hue across the leaves. The wind sweeps through, gently shaking the trees, guiding birds on their flight, and flipping the pages of a student's notebook. On every street, the joyful footsteps of students can be heard as they head to school for the new academic year.

For the past week, the school, teachers, and students have been eagerly preparing for the opening ceremony. Parents have also been actively involved, helping with the preparations. Recently, the staff has pruned trees, cleaned the school grounds, and tidied up the signs. I, for one, always find myself tasked with decorating the drum, even as the teachers adjust their hairstyles. It truly feels like preparing for a wedding celebration.

Indeed, when I went to school last night to pick up some materials for a colleague, the school was already gleaming in its festive preparations for the next day's ceremony. The campus was adorned with everything from water cups to flower vases, from high stages to carpets on the ground. Hundreds of red chairs were perfectly arranged, the drum was dressed in vibrant new colors, and the stage looked so beautifully decorated that it stirred deep emotions within me, making me feel even more pride and affection for the school I've cherished for so many years.

Tomorrow morning, everyone will arrive earlier than usual. Students in neat uniforms and red scarves fluttering in the wind, the school grounds alive with colors from flags and flowers. The teachers, dressed in formal ao dais, and the parents, full of joy and pride, will all be there, united in their trust in the school their children attend.

The opening ceremony transforms the school, making everything more colorful, meticulously prepared, and complete. The trees appear greener, and the old phoenix trees seem to stretch toward the ground, as if eager to join in the celebration. The wind rustles the leaves, and the red flags flutter in the breeze. On the porch, the image of Uncle Ho smiles down, accompanied by his quote: 'The future of Vietnam, the prosperity of our country, depends largely on the hard work and study of our children.' The schoolyard is bathed in a sea of flags, flowers, and vibrant scarves. The faces of everyone present are filled with joy and pride! How exhilarating!

The memories of school days are filled with many unforgettable moments, and among them, the opening ceremony is a particularly precious and beautiful experience. Oh, look! Outside the school gates, many parents and grandparents accompany their children to class, perhaps not just to see their kids off but to relive their own school days, searching for familiar desks, chairs, and the long-lost memories of their childhood. The children are radiant, as pure and bright as blank pages. Today, they come not to study, but to celebrate, to revel in new outfits, to wave flags and hold flowers, walking in a schoolyard filled with blossoms and the joyous sounds of the celebration. The atmosphere is filled with love, and the faces of friends, teachers, and parents are warm and welcoming! Today is a day of incredible excitement! Today is the FIRST DAY OF THE NEW SCHOOL YEAR!

I stand proudly, leading the students during the flag-raising ceremony and welcoming the guests. My role as the head of the school has lasted for nearly twenty years, yet each year, the opening ceremony still fills me with emotion and excitement.

The flag-raising ceremony is sacred and moving, unlike any other day. The anthem echoes powerfully under the vast blue sky. The ceremony then continues, solemn and brief yet deeply moving. As the principal strikes the drum to signal the beginning of the new school year, the entire schoolyard vibrates with the sound of the drum, filled with the eagerness and joy of both students and teachers. Balloons in the hands of young students rise into the sky, carrying with them hopes, dreams, and anticipation for the days ahead.

The first day of school marks the start of a new chapter in every student's life. And as the school year unfolds, the echoes of the opening ceremony will continue to inspire and drive the students and teachers forward, reminding us all of the enduring spirit of childhood and the importance of education.

Essay by Nguyễn Thanh Duyên

The streets once again flutter with the pure white of school uniforms, and the air is filled with the joyful sounds of laughter, as every autumn brings a rush of emotions. Autumn sparks new knowledge, welcoming the future generation to explore and discover. It will forever remain in our hearts, with the gentle memories of youthful dreams and aspirations.

September calls forth autumn with its pink sunshine, warming the hair and bringing out the lush green of the leaves. Outside the fence, chrysanthemums smile shyly, their small petals slowly unfurling. The breeze also gently brushes against the white clouds above. Perhaps the sparrows are also excited, cheerfully hopping around, their round eyes following the flowing white uniforms of students heading back to school this morning.

Autumn calls students to school, continuing their journey to soar high and far in the vast, clear sky. The memories of summer are now shared, and the sound of laughter fills the air, bringing us back to the magical days of childhood. In every corner of the schoolyard, on every bench, in every small shade, students gather to share their joyful and sorrowful stories from the days apart. Their eyes meet in the golden light, full of surprise, before breaking into smiles as they embrace the bonds of friendship.

Autumn is made even more beautiful by the sight of a girl with her hat tipped low, shyly turning her head to hide the smile that begins to bloom in her innocence. Among the excitement of reuniting with school, teachers, and friends, there is a glimpse of fear and hesitation in the face of the young student starting school for the first time. Tears quietly fall as they take each small step, holding onto their mother’s shirt, gazing around in confusion, overwhelmed by everything unfamiliar. Eventually, the fear gives way to a brighter, hopeful look as the school gates disappear behind them.

The bell rings, and the teacher enters the classroom like a fairy from bedtime stories, guiding the students into new lands without princes, fairies, or witches, but with diligent, kind-hearted people, loving every moment of life. The sunlight dances on the pages of their books, reflecting the bright hope in the children's eyes. Outside the window, the pigeons gently nod their heads before flying away.

Time passes quickly, and yesterday's memories are tucked away in the past. The past, with its joys and sorrows, with smiles and tears, remains our most precious baggage, the truest experience of the path we've walked.

As the new school year begins, the excitement of reunion stirs up memories and emotions. The short summer felt long, filled with separation from teachers, friends, blackboards, desks, and schoolyards... how could one stay still? We miss those moments of playing tag with friends, sitting together under the old phoenix tree, the voice of the teacher guiding us day by day, helping us grow. The students long to return to school, to meet teachers and friends, and relive those cherished moments of the past.

Each passing summer erases the distance, bringing people closer and welcoming each other as if they'd never been apart.

In the sound of the bell ringing, we hear the salty sweat of our parents, working hard to prepare us for school. They have toiled away in the fields, just to see us smile under the phoenix tree in the schoolyard. How can we count all the hardships etched in their eyes? No math can measure such love. They silently do everything for us, wishing us peace, health, and success on the path ahead. Years may pass, and memories may fade, but we can never forget the sacrifices of our parents as we walk through life.

The reunion passes, and the classroom becomes quiet, filled with the soft dust of chalk. The students glance at each other, while the teacher pours their love and passion into each lesson, helping the students soar to new heights, facing the unknown with hope and excitement.

Through the years, the tree of knowledge grows, nourishing dreams and ambitions. Students remember their teachers' white hair, as they remember the kindness of the teacher who guided them with care.

Then, a promise emerges, floating like autumn leaves in the sky. A promise to the teacher for a world of knowledge, to the parents for a future full of strength and belief. A promise to overcome struggles, rise above destiny, and work together to build a prosperous and peaceful homeland for the people.

The streets once again flutter with the pure white of school uniforms, and the air is filled with laughter, as autumn brings new knowledge and welcomes the future generation. Autumn will forever be etched in our hearts, with memories of childhood dreams and aspirations.

Lai Thi Ngoc Hue

Autumn comes and goes, like trains regularly passing through the station of time. It flows, it flows, taking me with it. Every time that 'train' arrives, the world turns to a pale blue. The signs of autumn stir up old memories...

For me, autumn is always the season of school openings.

The first time I went to school was in first grade. The school was in the village, about 500 meters from home. But my small, shy steps made it feel so far away. My parents were working in the fields, so I followed my older brother to school. He went to the commune school, and he led me there. I watched the kids from our neighborhood, all proudly wearing new clothes, decorated with seeds and smiles full of innocence. Teacher Nhu Huong helped us line up and assign seats. Since I was the smallest, I got to sit at the front. I already knew how to read well, so I wasn’t worried during the first lesson: learning the letter 'a'. But I will always remember her gentle, kind voice as she guided us through reading. I recall her soft hands holding mine as I learned to write my first letters. I can still see the green bamboo pen with its long nib, designed to hold ink. I also remember the village school with its thatched roof and mud walls, filled with the laughter of children...

Autumn came when I entered sixth grade. The transition from a village school to a commune school felt like entering a whole new world. Indeed, “My school’s red-tiled roof rises proudly amidst the green rice fields.” I was amazed by the new school, new friends, and unfamiliar teachers. Most of the kids from my neighborhood had dropped out, leaving only me and Hiep to study together. On the first day, after the opening ceremony and the ringing of the bell, we went to our designated classrooms. My homeroom teacher, Mr. Vu, taught Math. He entered, settled the class, took roll, and gave instructions. The first day of sixth grade was mostly about receiving textbooks and writing down the timetable, filled with new subjects: Math, Literature, Physics, Biology, History, Geography... Each subject had a separate teacher, unlike in elementary school. It all felt strange, and I missed my old teachers – Mrs. Thiem, Mrs. Nam, Mrs. Hoai Huong, Mr. Lan, and my first-grade teacher. I also thought about the kids from my neighborhood who no longer had a chance for the first day of school, because they were too poor and had to stay home to help their parents...

Another summer passed, and the golden threads of sunlight filled the sky as I eagerly entered high school. The teenage years are always full of beauty and dreams, and I had never looked forward to a school opening like I did this time. Back then, students from a village school like mine dreamed of attending the most prestigious school in the district. In the excitement of the first day, I saw a mixture of surprise and pride in my classmates' eyes. The new school was large and impressive, with three rows of classrooms. The schoolyard was vast, shaded by tall trees. There were still a few late-blooming phoenix flowers scattered among the green leaves. A thin, frail student suddenly grew tall in the flowing white dress. For the first time, this outfit made me feel shy under the gaze of my classmates, walking gently like a young lady. I felt a bit like one of the characters from Nguyễn Nhật Ánh’s novels – Xuyen, Thuc, or Cuc Huong. The high school gates opened before me, filled with dreams and aspirations...

And so, countless seasons of changing leaves pass through a person’s life. But the most vivid memories are perhaps the seasons of school openings. As each autumn passes, we remember, embrace, and hold close the love of the earth, the sky, and the people. I quietly gaze at the sky, feeling the gentle touch of autumn and the excitement of reunions. The cool breeze whispers through the season.

Nguyen Thi Dieu Hien

Every new school year, I find myself once again covering books and labeling them for my child, even though they are old enough to do this on their own. I do it not only to help but also to relive the feeling of those school days. Despite all the years that have passed, those memories grow more distant with time, yet they remain as vivid as ever in my heart. Whenever the school season approaches, I think of my parents, my teachers, and the classmates who walked with me through those early years of school.

Like many places across the country, our first day of school fell on a September day, a day of autumn. But in the Central Highlands, the autumn is different. There are no “leaves falling on the roads,” no “faint clouds in the sky.” The rainy season hadn’t fully passed, and sometimes heavy rainstorms would still pour down on the opening day of school, creating some inconveniences. Nevertheless, the excitement and nervousness of the first day of school probably felt the same for everyone.

How could I ever forget that very first time? I was just under 6 years old. The road to school was still muddy from the recent rains. At that age, I was so small that my mother, out of affection, carried me to school. Other children, slightly older, were led by their mothers, and everyone appeared shy, awkward, and clumsy in their new, oversized clothes and large backpacks. Once we arrived, my mother met the headmaster and requested that I be placed directly in the second grade. The headmaster, although surprised, agreed after testing my reading, writing, and math skills, and thus, I joined a class of 7-year-olds at a school named “Phu Tho Community Primary School.” My first teacher was kind and gentle, guiding me through those early days in a memorable and caring way. The friends I made during that time, though life has since pulled us apart, will forever remain in my heart as a cherished part of my childhood.

Despite growing up in a challenging period of our country’s history, my student years passed with ease. Perhaps childhood always finds joy and love, which overshadow material hardships. Back then, school buildings were simple and makeshift. After three months of a long summer break, the rainy season would come, and the yard would be covered with thick, damp grass, bringing a musty atmosphere to the classrooms. About a week before the school year began, we spent those days cleaning the school grounds, wiping down the desks, and fixing up the classrooms. Rural students were used to helping their parents with manual labor, so even as teenagers, we were able to get these tasks done efficiently. Those were busy but joyful days, and now, they are fond memories.

For us back then, three months of summer truly felt like a break from school. Some helped their parents in the fields, others planted vegetables, watered the plants, or herded cattle. As the first day of school approached, there was a flutter of excitement, eager to see teachers and friends again. The night before school started was always filled with anticipation. My father would carefully cover my books and label them. We would pack my new notebooks, ink bottle, and pen into my bag. Everything was ready for a new journey, full of both joy and challenge.

Today, the new school year has officially begun. Watching the young children, so nervous on their first day, holding tightly to their parents’ hands, the returning students laughing and reuniting with friends, and the teachers in their neat uniforms welcoming the new year – I’m sure each of us feels a bit sentimental. For me, the emotions that accompany the first day of school are deeply rooted, from the early days when I clung to my mother’s side, carried through the muddy roads to school, to all the school years, university days, and my career as an educator, alongside many generations of students.
Time flies by, and the little child with wild hair from those days is now a middle-aged woman with gray in her hair. This year’s first day of school, even though I’m not out on the streets, I can still hear the sound of the school bell ringing and picture the students in their crisp new uniforms, all full of hope for the year ahead. Schools today are well-maintained and beautiful, with clean desks and chairs at just the right height, giving students more opportunities to study comfortably. As someone who always cares about the education of the younger generation, I silently wish for breakthroughs and success in the new academic year and hope that education administrators will make timely, wise decisions and policies to help our education system reach new heights.

I can still see myself, the little child heading to school on that muddy village road nearly 50 years ago…

Ai Nguyen

I cried once because I didn’t have shoes to wear until I saw someone without feet to wear shoes (Helen Keller)... People are like that, sometimes they hold boundless happiness in their hands but fail to notice it. Only when it is lost do they regret, realize, and suddenly understand that what they had seemed ordinary but was truly priceless... In the flow of time, how many times have you stopped to realize this? How many times have you longed deeply for the things that once seemed ordinary but now feel like luxuries, like wishes... And now, in this moment, sitting by the window, where the longan tree branches sway, dancing in the golden autumn sun, I long for a simple sound that has always been a part of my life: The autumn school bell...

The beloved school bell awakened my childhood in a magical way. When I entered grade one, my grandparents took me to school. The small village school had a branch in the temple village. Our first-grade class was held in the temple, with massive wooden pillars that three or four of us could barely encircle, and the stone slabs at the base of the pillars were cool to the touch. The atmosphere was quiet and a bit solemn. At that time, there was no electricity, so the natural light that should have entered the classroom was blocked by the low roof, the wooden shutters, and the window ledges that reached up to our knees. I thought going to school was just like this; when the teacher came to class, she would gather us little children together, line us up in front of the classroom, and then begin the lesson. When the teacher said it was time to rest, we rested; when it was time to go home, we went home... It wasn’t until I went to the main school for the first day that I realized it wasn’t like that! On the first day of school, the campus was crowded. We stood in the schoolyard, on the solid, packed dirt ground, looking up at the stage. When the school bell rang, I felt a strange fluttering in my heart. The crisp, resonant sound of the bell rang out, filling me with new emotions as a six-year-old. In the silent and solemn atmosphere, the bell echoed, calling us... From that moment on, I dreamed of finishing grade one quickly so I could go to the main school and hear that cheerful sound every day...

The beloved school bell accompanied me throughout my childhood; it brought so many emotions. I remember walking to school past the fields, sneaking into the rice fields along the road, picking wild rice, munching on it while teasing each other. Suddenly, the bell would ring from afar, carried by a light breeze, and we’d hurry... “The bell’s ringing, hurry up!” And we’d all rush, laughing through the dewy rice stalks. I also remember the exam seasons, when my heart raced when I heard the bell signaling the start of the exam. I would be in a hurry to finish the test, and then, when the bell rang for the end of the exam, my heart would skip a beat. Sometimes, I would finish my test just in time, other times I’d still have time left and would be waiting eagerly for the bell. The same sound, but at times filled with joy, regret, or even frustration. Was it the bell’s fault? No, it was the heart of the student... The bell and I went through childhood together, under the roof of the humble village school, with the door and window frames that didn’t have shutters; under the roof of the peaceful little town school... The bell echoed through the branches, ripening the fruits of the banyan tree and urging the flame trees to bloom. The bell reverberated, stretching across the surface of the vast Bach Dang Lake...

The school bell, I thought, would rest quietly in me after twelve years of study. But no, the school bell remained tied to my life, especially when I chose the path of a teacher, a life connected to the school and its seasons, the exams, and the flame trees. The school bell grew with me in my career of nurturing minds. I remember my first day as a student teacher, during the flag-raising ceremony, when the sound of the bell stirred emotions in me, filling my heart with strange affection. Meanwhile, many students seized the opportunity during the bell’s sound to chat. Perhaps they didn’t realize how much they would miss the sound of the school bell one day... Then, on my first day as a teacher, standing in front of my new students on the first day of school, watching them smile brightly, I felt a rush of nervous excitement. The sound of the bell that year still echoes in my heart...

For a while, the school where I taught used a bell instead of a drum. The bell would ring at different times, with melodies that were pleasant to the ear, but I still felt a bit nostalgic for the drum, missing the warm vibrations that filled the air, and the smooth surface of the drumhead. Even though we used the bell to signal class changes, on the first day of school, the drum would still be placed carefully on the stage, covered with red cloth. Its sound, rising with the music and the speaker’s heartfelt speech, stirred the hearts of both teachers and students, making our hearts beat faster, as if we were children again, immersed in the joy of the students.

Though over two decades have passed, with many new school years arriving, I have never longed to hear the school bell as much as I do this year. The last page of the August calendar has fallen, and the first day of school is drawing near... The autumn sun shines golden on the branches and leaves. The cool winds are returning to the familiar streets. The sky and earth are filled with early morning and evening mist... but there is no longer the same excited anticipation like before. Instead, there is anxiety, a hope that the pandemic will pass quickly, a wish to return to school, to see the bright faces of the students, and to hear the deep, far-reaching sound of the school bell. Online school means hearing the bell on TV, and the school near my home will remain quiet. I hope that in the future, the first day of school will be filled with colorful flags, cheerful sounds of the bell, and the autumn will awaken with sounds that stir the soul...

Phuong Thao

When autumn comes with its golden cloak, adorning itself with the exquisite beauty of countless yellowed leaves caught in the soft sunlight, and the sweet fragrance of milk flowers lingers in the breeze, weaving through the trees and the corners of the streets, it stirs the heart and marks the beginning of the school year – a season where dreams, ambitions, and passions of youth are born. My five years at the Le Quy Don Primary School are filled with five opening ceremonies, each with a unique emotional rhythm. This year, the opening ceremony stood out, especially for us, the Fifth Graders.

Early in the morning, while the city was still shrouded in the misty clouds of autumn rains, with the cold wind seeping into the corners of my room, I awoke eagerly, filled with anticipation. Surely, it wasn’t just me, but my classmates too, all feeling the weight of growing up, stepping into the role of the leaders of our beloved Le Quy Don. The joy bloomed in my chest like fresh flowers smiling in the early sunlight. I went to school with a heart full of happiness.

In the distance, hidden under the cool shade of green trees, the school gate in the shape of a house slowly came into view with every step I took. As I approached, the wide gates opened like a loving mother welcoming her children into her embrace. Passing through the gates, a cascade of unexpected sights appeared before me. Oh! How beautiful my school looked today! Flags, flowers, colorful decorations, and balloons in every hue... I was surprised to see many groups of students already there – I wasn’t the earliest after all.

Soon enough, the students gathered, and all the teachers wore their beautiful ceremonial outfits. Yet, the rain still fell. Short and long drops chased each other down, hitting the courtyard, and for a moment, I thought the ceremony might be postponed. That’s when I understood what it felt like to wait, to feel the anxious anticipation rising within me. Every now and then, we’d rush to the hallway to peer outside, silently wishing for the rain to stop. Finally, the ceremony proceeded, though later than expected, but it was a great success.

The lively cultural performances that kicked off the event warmed up the chilly autumn morning. We sang like little birds, praising our school – our second, beloved home – with immense pride. The schoolyard was drenched in red from flags and flowers. The chill disappeared, replaced by a sense of warmth and affection that filled the air.

After the performances, everyone stood to salute the flag. The students, standing in perfect formation like soldiers ready for battle, looked so solemn. I glanced at the first-grade students, small and innocent, and suddenly, memories of five years ago flooded back – I was just like them back then. How fast time flies! It’s true that time doesn’t make a sound, so we don’t often notice it until it passes by unnoticed… Then, the national anthem and the school song were sung, filling us with pride for our nation and determination to excel in our studies. The atmosphere grew quieter as the vice-principal, Pham Thi Lan, stepped up to read the letter from President Truong Tan Sang. The letter was a message of encouragement, urging us to keep striving: 'No matter how difficult it is, we must continue to study well.' And perhaps the most memorable and moving moment for me was when Principal Bui Thi Quynh Huong took the stage to deliver her speech and struck the school bell. Those familiar melodies echoed in my heart more profoundly than ever before. Oh, my school, my teachers, could this be the last time we, the graduating class, will hear the opening bell at this beloved primary school? For the past four years, after every bell, lessons followed with teachers guiding us through math, literature, and more, leading us to new horizons…

The school bell rings, closing the lively summer and opening a new school year full of meaning. I silently promised to give my best to achieve the highest results in this final year. The balloons float higher and higher, carrying with them the dreams and aspirations of our youth.

This year, I’m in Fifth Grade
I’m a role model for the younger students
I always cherish time
I love learning, valuing what is right and good
Studying hard, diligently, day and night
So I can live up to the legacy of Uncle Ho...

September holds a special place in the hearts of students because it marks the beginning of the school year. For many, the sound of the school bell is forever linked with the colorful memories of their school days. The solemn tolling of the bell at the opening ceremony, the urgent ringing signaling the start of class, and the bittersweet chimes during farewell ceremonies all evoke a rush of nostalgia. Over time, after many highs and lows, the sound of the school bell will always echo in our hearts whenever September comes around.

I still remember my very first day of school, when my mother took me to the local primary school. The little girl, nervous and trembling, clung to her mother’s sleeve, unwilling to let go. My teacher, smiling warmly, gently said, “It’s time, dear. Say goodbye to your mom and join your classmates in the line.” Holding my teacher’s hand, I walked to join the line, but I kept looking back. My mother, along with other parents, stood at the back of the school yard, watching their children on the first day of school.

The opening ceremony was formal and moving, and when the headmaster struck the school bell, the sound resonated, deep and powerful: “Tung…tung…tung…” A new and proud feeling swelled within me: “I’m officially a student now.” From that moment, the school bell became a constant companion in my student life.

School days are filled with moments tied to the sound of the bell. We knew each class was only 45 minutes long, yet we were always eager for the bell that signaled the end of a lesson, giving us 5 minutes to relax. During recess, we had 15 minutes to play outside, trying all sorts of games that children do. The girls jumped rope, played marbles, and engaged in the game of ô ăn quan. The boys kicked shuttlecocks, played catch, and ran around. The whole schoolyard was alive with the noise of children. Suddenly, the bell would ring, calling us back to class, and the chaos would give way to silence as we hurried inside. Every generation of students has its mischievous moments, proving the saying, “First the devil, then the ghost, third the student.” I recall a time when a group of friends arrived late to school and had to wait outside. Seizing the opportunity when the school guard wasn’t looking, they sneaked in and rang the bell early. It caused a commotion throughout the school, and the miscreants had to write a report and have their parents meet with the teacher. That incident remains a fond memory that we still talk about every time we meet.

During the summer, the school bell sits silently, “taking a break” on its stand. The schoolyard is empty, and it feels like the bell misses the students. The wide playground is bathed in sunlight, with shadows dancing in the breeze and the chirping of birds moving between the branches.

In September, the ripe seeds of the sycamore tree, turning golden and peeking through the leaves, signal the return of the school year. The school bell is once again polished and prepared by the guard, ready to fulfill its duty for the new academic year.

As the years pass, I suddenly experience the same nervousness and emotional stirrings that I felt on my own first day of school, now while sending my little son off. Under the golden autumn sun, tiny figures in white uniforms stand in neat rows on the schoolyard. The red flag with yellow stars flutters proudly in the crisp autumn breeze. And then, oh, there it is again: “Tung…tung…tung…” the sound of the school bell ringing out, stirring excitement in my heart.

This September, Hanoi and many other cities are under lockdown due to the pandemic. Teachers and students are attending the opening ceremony online. Even though we cannot hear the sound of the school bell or meet in person, I believe that teachers, parents, and generations of students alike will still feel the joy of the new school year. We are united, standing together through this challenging time, and soon the beloved sound of the school bell will ring again in the days ahead.

By Vy Anh

I often reminisce about past back-to-school seasons, a mix of joy and sadness. On my first day of school, I felt like a kite soaring into a new horizon. By the last first day, I found myself feeling bittersweet, reluctant to leave behind the dreamlike days and filled with new hopes for the fresh school year. Like a song of blooming youth with its highs and lows, the first day of school creates memories that linger in one’s heart. Behind these clear emotions are the hopeful eyes of my father and the quiet, nurturing love of my mother...

My primary school was at the edge of the village, while my house was at the other end. To get to school, I passed through golden rice fields, wandered by fragrant betel nut trees, and walked along a narrow path of green moss-covered bricks under the shade of ancient bamboo trees. As a child, I would fly kites and play tag with my village friends in the empty lot behind the school. The school, with its row of pine trees at the entrance, was familiar and comforting. But on that first school morning, as I stood in front of the schoolyard crowded with white shirts and blue pants, my feet hesitated. It felt both familiar and strange, both exciting and fearfully unclear. That morning, my mother gently woke me, handing me a notebook, a pen, and a new set of clothes. Before she hurried off to work at the factory, she reminded me to be well-behaved and respectful to my teacher. She hugged me tightly, her eyes betraying a hint of sadness. On my first day, I walked to school alone. A fleeting feeling of resentment toward my mother filled my young heart. Seeing other children being walked to school by their mothers, some comforted by a hug and others hiding behind their mother’s clothes, I felt a childish, innocent sadness. Later, reflecting on my naïve sorrow, I realized how deeply I felt for my mother’s silent sacrifice.

When I reached secondary school, those first-day emotions still lingered. I was excited to reunite with my friends after the summer break, proud to have advanced to a new grade, and elated to wear my fresh white school uniform. Every year, I used textbooks passed down from my older siblings, their pages smooth and well-preserved. The excitement of preparing my books and labeling them ignited a sense of anticipation and nervousness. On the first day, I eagerly woke up early. Since my house was close, I walked to school. The scent of ripe rice and the soft breeze of autumn greeted me. The sound of the school bell echoed in my heart, lifting my spirits. The last flowers of the sycamore tree gently fell, brushing the long hair of my classmate with clear eyes.

In high school, I passed the entrance exam for the provincial specialized school. Leaving home for the city, I stayed in the school dormitory, returning to visit my parents every weekend and summer break. On the first day of school, my father drove me from home to school on his old motorbike. The road stretched endlessly, the wind stinging my eyes, as I sat silently behind my father. In moments like these, I felt a deep love and longing for him. His worn-out shirt and gnarled hands, weathered by time, still gripped the handlebars firmly as the bumpy road twisted before us. I remembered the times I was stubborn, the moments I unknowingly made my father sad, and I felt a deep regret. When we reached the school gates, my father reminded me to study hard, offering me a warm, hopeful glance. He waited until I entered the school grounds, blending into the sea of white uniforms, before he turned his bike around to leave.

Every back-to-school season, as I open a new notebook, I think of my parents working tirelessly every day to give me the chance to go to school. The ink I write with today carries not only the scent of the paper but also the traces of sweat and the seasons that have passed in my father’s hair and mother’s eyes. I begin my first lesson on how to live a life worthy of the sacrifices my parents made—a lesson I will carry with me throughout my life.

By Trần Văn Thiên

A new month is here. I turn the pages of my journal, hastily writing down the thoughts of a night filled with reflection, bidding farewell to August with a blend of joy and sadness, but not much regret. A bittersweet smile crosses my face as I recall the verses a friend wrote in my autograph book years ago, especially on the last day of school before graduation. September is here, and with it, a new school year begins. I fondly recall the white uniforms of students, rushing to my wardrobe to find the old uniform, its fabric worn by time but still carrying the messages from my friends, their faces and smiles clear as ever in my memory, like a film rewinding slowly. In September, it feels as if one hides forever in the nostalgic glow of student life, cherishing memories of first loves, late arrivals to school, and the exhilaration of meeting friends again after a long summer break...

September has fully embraced autumn, and the chrysanthemums bloom in full glory, their golden hue spreading like honey across the streets, making the students' white uniforms look more beautiful than ever. I suddenly feel a sense of regret, for when I was in school, I never liked the oversized, stiff school uniforms or the awkward ao dai, but now, away from school, I long to wear the uniform I once disliked so much. I now feel a deep affection for the graceful girl wearing the pure white ao dai, a symbol of Vietnamese beauty. Only now do I understand why the white ao dai appears so frequently in poetry, music, and love. It was a time full of memories, poetry, music, and love: 'It was a shirt flying white through all my dreams. A poem that lingers in my notebook. A playground game that comes and goes...' But time cannot be reversed, so I can only use September to look back on my school memories, with all their regrets and longing.

What student hasn't had their share of foolish mistakes? At that age, with empty stomachs and carefree minds, it would be a wasted youth if we didn’t make those mistakes. For only then, years later, can we look back, laugh, and feel both regret and relief. The beauty of student life lies in these clumsy first steps. A memory too “clean” would be one worth forgetting. So, it’s only later, when we're older, that we start to long for the pure white uniform that we once tried to avoid, squeezing it tighter, lifting our skirts higher, searching for bolder colors—without realizing that the white itself is the most beautiful, especially when it is worn by innocent hearts. Life, like a palette, lets you dye any color you like, except for the pure white we once took for granted.

September brings back countless memories, like the first rainy days drenching our uniforms, sneaking out of class with friends to eat ice cream, the schoolyard filled with fallen yellow leaves, and the days we buried sweet potatoes and burned the leaves. It’s the anticipation of a ball soaring through the air, the naive love for school that never fades...

In September, the erratic weather fades, and the cool winds of autumn begin to blow more often. September is meant for wandering through the crowded streets of Hanoi, searching for oneself in the songs of autumn: 'The artist wanders the streets, suddenly forgetting the path…' Though I'm no artist, I possess an artist’s soul, so I get lost just to fall in love with Hanoi—the streets bathed in autumn sunlight. Wouldn’t that be just fine?

In any case, September has arrived. Not obsessed, but completely enchanted. So, why not welcome September, the month filled with memories that soothe the soul, and start fresh with new plans?

By Nguyễn Văn Hiệp

Another autumn has arrived. Autumn calls me back to memories that will never fade. My heart aches, just as it has before, and will forever!

The second year opening ceremony at university. Dressed in a white ao dai, high heels, hair half-up, with a touch of lipstick, I walked confidently to school. Looking down at the wreath swaying gently on my chest, I recalled the admiration I felt for the seniors during the ceremony the previous year. The wreaths on their necks sparkled like laurels in my favorite TV show, and I couldn’t shake the yearning. After a year of hard work, I too had earned my first student wreath. Walking in the sweet scent of the milk flowers by the faculty office, I silently thanked life for granting me so much happiness!

And then, my classmate approached, gasping with the news: “He’s gone!”

My ears buzzed, trying to piece together the broken pieces of information: “Cửa Lò”, “this afternoon”, “the waves took him”, and “him”. No, it can’t be true! Just the other day, he was at my place. I can still hear the screech of his bike brakes at the dorm gate, his familiar call of “Hà ơi!”, as he wheeled his bike in, skipping with a smile, chatting happily. He was always so cheerful, so optimistic. To him, everyone had something lovable, every problem had a solution, life was truly a gift…

I remember the first afternoon of first grade, on my way home from school, I ran into him. His white shirt was dirty, his big eyes looking up at the pencil case tangled in the thorn bushes, the green and red pencil lying under the tree. The thorns were thick and high, and we, just two kids, couldn’t do anything. Luckily, a nearby shepherd came and helped clear the thorns. Later, I learned that, though a boy, he wasn’t good at climbing, didn’t enjoy teasing beehives, and didn’t know how to skip stones on the water like the other kids in the neighborhood. But he was quick at math and his handwriting was both neat and beautiful. Soon enough, he became the ‘girly boy’ of the class, frequently bullied by the other boys who made him carry their bags and shoes. I wasn’t a hero, but sometimes I’d carry his bag and shoes too. And that’s how we became friends.

One time, I invited him to explore the lake near the school. The lake was large, its surface still and clear, with tiny snails visible among the rocks beneath. He sat by the shore, gazing out, deep in thought. I looked at him, seeing the deep blue sky reflected in his eyes, the sunlight glinting off his long, curved lashes. At that moment, he was the angel of a fairy tale, the most beautiful, intelligent, and kind person in the world!

Then, one summer during fourth grade, his family moved back to the countryside. Every time I passed the garden with the small house nestled under the dark green chicken egg tree, I could almost see the two of us, children playing near the doorstep. Oh, how I longed to whisper with him again, to see those bright eyes and that gentle smile like the autumn sunlight. Every time I hear someone mention that countryside, I wish I could go there once more to find the friend who had shared my childhood.

One autumn day when I was fifteen, soaked by the August rain, a classmate handed me a small ID photo and asked: “Do you remember anyone?” He wore a white shirt, a cap, a red scarf, and had those sparkling eyes and a smile as if hiding a secret! It was him! After all these years, he still cherished memories of the small garden and the friends from the village. On that day, even though the sky was still gray with rain, my heart was filled with the warm golden sunshine.

Do you know, when I received your letter saying you had passed the entrance exam for the Math Teacher’s College in Vinh, I was overjoyed. Even though I had never lived in Vinh, it felt so close to me. That city was where you had completed your high school years, where we would both study to become teachers. I always thought, if there were anyone destined to be a teacher, it was you. You would have been the funniest, most loving Math teacher, and of course, the most handsome! As for me, I would always be proud to be your colleague.

During the rainy days in Vinh, when I missed home, you came and we wandered around the old bookstores on Nguyễn Văn Cừ street. Strangers’ faces seemed brighter with your joyful laughter, and the leaves along the street shimmered in the green reflection of my gleaming eyes. You even put glow-in-the-dark stars on my room’s wall. Every time the lights went out, my small room transformed into a starry autumn sky. Your clear eyes, sparkling with laughter, blended into the magical starry sky…

Then, you left, suddenly, without warning! On that afternoon, the sun shone on the field in front of your house, a painful, aching autumn sunlight that I had never seen before. The peaceful countryside nestled by the mountain was stunned. The small house seemed to collapse in sorrow, and your mother, once strong and tough, now bent in grief. I walked you to the road leading up the hill at the end of the village. The wildflowers, the bushes, the autumn grass swaying in the wind, the white wreath wilting in the late autumn sun…

The friend who had shared so many autumns with me, whose smile lit up my world, now lies silent beneath the fresh earth, the scent of roots still strong. Slowly, the grass will cover you, the rain will erase your memory, and your image will fade amidst the bustle of life. It can’t be true! For the first time in my life, I felt the pain of losing someone dear! If life were like a leaf, small and fragile, you were torn from the branch too soon, leaving a wound that would always ache with the changing winds of autumn. There were so many lessons left for you to learn to become a teacher, so many students waiting for you, so many gifts you never had the chance to give to your parents, your younger brother, and me. So much left unsaid…

Thinking of you, I always feel you are an angel, as pure and good as the gentle autumn breeze that the heavens sent to our dry, scorching land. Once, I told you of my worries about life’s brevity, and you smiled, saying: “Life is not measured by the number of years, but by the richness of experience and the depth of the soul.” In your nineteen autumns, you had already sowed so much love and hope. Another season of sowing seeds is here, and I feel my heart ache with longing. It seems like my autumn angel is somewhere close, in the bright blue sky, in the gentle golden sunshine, and in the eyes of the students, sparkling with trust and love!

Hà Nguyễn