Top 10 Best Essays about the Past

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Ngày cập nhật gần nhất: 15/4/2026

Content

1. The Village Well

2. Mom, I Want to Return to the Past

3. The Spinning Top from the Past

4. Dream of the Past

5. The Sounds of Yesteryears

6. The Dirt Road of the Past

7. The Little Girl from the Past

8. The Flavors of the Old Village

9. The Old House

10. It was a time from the past...

1. The Village Well

Returning today, I visit the village well, and memories of childhood flood back. Born in the village, connected to the well, and the familiar banyan tree, I have always felt the deep bond with my homeland and the timeless love for it. Back then, we children would gather around the village well every evening, the most fun during summer days. We bathed, fetched water, and watered the lush water spinach that thirsted for each cool drop. Daily chores, village gossip… if you wanted to know, just visit the well. It was where the villagers would wake up early to fetch water before heading to the fields, and then return in the evening to wash clothes and chat. The sounds of laughter mixed with the cool water, and time seemed to pass by slowly. Even in poverty, it was a warm and peaceful life. I remember the elders telling us that there were once two ancient wells, but the war had destroyed them. The village became desolate… After peace was restored, the villagers joined hands to rebuild the two wells on the old brick foundations. One square, one round—symbols of earth and sky, perhaps. The two wells were on the same road, about twenty meters apart. The mouths of the wells were more than two meters wide, a vast expanse for us children. We would lean over the well and shout, and our voices echoed endlessly. It made us feel “great”! The village well became close to all of us, especially the children, who formed countless unforgettable memories with it. Back then, almost every activity in the village was tied to the well. Though the water wasn’t crystal clear, it was abundant and incredibly refreshing. Even during dry summer months, the well never ran dry, providing water day and night to satisfy the villagers working in the fields. Around 4 or 5 in the morning, or 5 or 6 in the evening, the adults would start fetching water. By 7 or 8 AM, the children would join in, carrying buckets in a never-ending rhythm. As one bucket was lifted, three or four more would be dropped. Sometimes the water was so heavy, the children couldn’t pull it up, and the bucket would fall back into the well. We weren’t afraid, used to it by now. Cleverness came with adversity. Some of us would grab a bamboo stick or a pole to fish the bucket out, and the clattering sound would turn the water murky. We’d laugh and show off our toothless smiles, feeling like true experts! Though we knew the adults would scold us for our mischief, we didn’t mind. After all, nightfall brought with it moonlit games of hide-and-seek around the well, drenched in sweat. We’d dip our faces in the cool water, or splash it on each other, feeling the exhilaration of it all. Those days, my mother would make me two small water buckets. In the afternoon, I’d happily join my friends in fetching water from the village well. We’d put banana leaves in the buckets so that the water wouldn’t spill and wet the dirt road. I felt so proud when my mother would praise me, saying, “Oh, you’re so good!” Fetching water wasn’t much work, but it was full of fun. The path from the well to our home was only about thirty meters, but the buckets of water would stop several times along the way. Sometimes because it was heavy, other times because something caught our attention. We’d stop to admire a dragonfly sleeping, teasing it until it startled and flew off. Or perhaps we’d find a ripe fruit or smell the fragrant blossoms of the sweet-scented tree, pausing to savor the scent. The rough red dirt path seemed to sing underfoot when the water splashed out of the buckets. Thankfully, bamboo groves shaded the path, making the journey seem short. The moment the water jar was full, we’d stop. Then came the excitement of waiting for my mother’s reward from the poor village market—sometimes a piece of coconut, a sugar cube, or a few bits of candy. The joy of childhood in the countryside was simple. Hunger was easily solved with sweet potatoes, cassava, or sugarcane from the backyard, and there was always something to nibble on, like guavas from the trees. Occasionally, there were pieces of fresh coconut or bits of candy, and if we were lucky, a colorful lollipop or a stick of ice cream (which was often just frozen water). Then we grew up, as the saying goes, 'When the elephant is born, so is the grass.' We all had dark skin, sunburned hair, and hearts as strong as iron, steeped in the peaceful, tranquil spirit of the countryside. Growing up in the village, bathing in the well’s water, we children who once played around now scattered far and wide. We left for different lives, to escape the hardships our parents endured. But we never managed to return to the well together, for each of us had our own path to follow. Sometimes I still wonder, “Has anyone ever gone back to the village, to the well, to search for those past memories?” In the hustle of life, has anyone ever longed to return, to place their face beside the well and find peace? As for me, the cool breeze of the village well still lingers in my dreams. The memories come rushing back, clear as crystal. It seems like those childhood days will always stir in my heart. Now, as I visit the village well once more, I stand in silence, gazing at the still water, remembering all the familiar faces—some still here, others gone. The well is covered in moss, as if it’s fallen into a thousand-year slumber, for hardly anyone disturbs the water anymore... Ah, though far from home, my heart still yearns for the scent of fresh straw—damp, warm, and comforting. Far from home, my soul longs for the cool breeze from the village well, a long-forgotten memory of my homeland, buried deep in my subconscious. Looking back, the world today is no longer what it used to be… Oh, village well, how I miss you!

The Village Well

2. Mom, I Want to Return to the Past

Dearest Mother,

I know that right now you are very upset with me, and deeply saddened by my actions. I also understand that simply saying sorry won't change anything, but I still want to tell you these three words.

Mom, could you please not be angry with me anymore? My heart aches, and I know yours does too. When I made the decision to leave everything behind for a new beginning, I knew I was being selfish. But at that time, do you know how I justified it to myself? I told myself that every parent loves their child, and if I left to pursue what makes me happy, what I truly needed, then surely that’s what you would want too, right? But I never thought about how much you would miss me, how empty you would feel when you walked into a room and I wasn't there. I didn’t realize how lonely and lost you must have felt, not hearing my voice, not having me run around you like a little bird anymore. You once told me that my decision to leave for a new land felt like a dream. You wished that after a long sleep, you would wake up to find me lying beside you, just like the child I once was. Mom, time passes so quickly, and the child you once carried on your back, walking down the roads, has now grown up. How did this happen?

The weather has been so cold lately, and I worry about you. I don’t know how your leg is doing. Is the cold bothering you? There are some afternoons when I stand at the balcony and look out at the empty lot in front of the house, and I miss you so much, miss home so deeply. In those moments, I wish I had wings so I could fly back home. But you know, Mom, I have to get through this tough phase. I truly don’t want to be away from you, but there’s so much I want to do. I don’t want to waste my youth in fear and monotony. I have dreams, ambitions, and ideals, and I want to go out and experience life, to find the answers to my questions. I believe you, Mom, understand me better than anyone else, but you just don't want to let go of your silly little girl, right?

You must still remember the days when I was little, how on rainy days, you would come to pick me up from school. You would carry me on your back, covering us with a big raincoat. I would rest my head on your warm back, listening to the rain with such joy. Sometimes, I would ask, “How far have we come, Mom?” Oh, I long to go back to that time, the beautiful past when I was just an innocent, carefree child. There were times I wished I could stop growing up, wishing I could stay that little girl forever. I was so naïve, wasn’t I? Maybe because I was so innocent, you were worried about me being away from you. But Mom, you have to believe that I’ve grown stronger, I’ve progressed so much. Do you think, just let me go, let me experience life so I can change and improve myself? So, please let life teach me the things I didn’t learn in school.

For some reason, lately, in my dreams, I keep seeing the image of us together in the rice fields. You walk ahead, and I follow behind. In the evening, as the sunset falls, our shadows merge as one.

Mom! I miss you!

Author: Trúc Xanh

Mom, I Want to Return to the Past

3. The Spinning Top from the Past

For the children in my village when I was young, there was nothing more delightful and exciting than playing with a spinning top. All you needed was a dry bamboo stick, shaved thinly, with paper wings at both ends, or simply two palm leaves twisted together, with a hole drilled in the center to attach a spinning axle. With eagerness in our hearts and focus in our eyes, the spinning top would twirl and bring joy to us. We would lie on the grass, laughing and chatting, our faces turned towards the sky, each of us holding a small spinning top.

Now, living and working in a distant city, I often think back to my childhood in the village, especially when I see children or the grandchildren of my friends. Reflecting on those innocent days, with all the simple games and rustic pleasures of the countryside, I can't help but smile to myself, remembering the past with a pang of longing. Those were truly peaceful, carefree days, full of happiness from the rice fields, country roads, and small alleyways. There, every morning birds chirped from the tall trees, and every afternoon, the buffalo grazed leisurely while barefoot children played with spinning tops. These memories of a beautiful time and an unforgettable childhood with my friends remain etched in my heart.

Our childhood was filled with so many joys that in today's modern world, it's hard to recreate or even experience again. Back then, we didn't have remote-controlled cars, automatic superheroes, modern mobile phones with addictive games, or even comic books that seemed like luxury items. Life was tough and not modern, so we made our own toys from whatever we could find around us, sometimes even reusing old or discarded items. The spinning top was the most familiar and popular toy for children, not just in my village but everywhere. We made them ourselves from local materials like bamboo and leaves.

I still remember the days in the rice fields, where the children of the village gathered. Every afternoon, when the sun started to cool down and the breeze from the river blew gently, the buffaloes, full from grazing, wandered off to find their companions. We would call each other, excited and full of energy. Soon, paper kites soared high in the sky, balls rolled on the green grass, and the spinning tops spun fast with the evening breeze. We paid no attention to the buffaloes wandering the fields or the fading sunlight as the shadows grew longer. All we cared about was the spinning top spinning in front of us, in the laughter, in our innocent dreams.

For the children in my village back then, there was nothing more joyful and fascinating than playing with spinning tops. All we needed was a bamboo stick, shaved thinly, with paper wings or simple palm leaves twisted together. With eagerness and fascination, the top would spin and bring joy to us. We lay on the grass, laughing, with our faces turned to the sky, holding our spinning tops tightly. The wind from the river would blow, and the game would continue. I remember those peaceful afternoons, the gentle breeze soothing our innocent souls, the clear blue sky in the eyes of children, and the little spinning tops spinning, bringing simple joy and childhood dreams.

But now, I feel a sense of sadness and pity for today's children, who don't have a truly carefree and innocent childhood. As I think back, it's easy to find things in today's world, but it's hard to find the simple spinning tops we once made. Today, the children of my family play with plastic spinning tops, powered by small motors and batteries, not relying on the wind. They spend most of their time studying, going to school from early morning until late at night. They complain about not having enough time for sleep, let alone play. They don't know the riverbanks, the breezes, or the rice fields. All they know is school – regular classes, extra lessons, foreign languages, and computers.

The beautifully colored spinning tops their parents buy for them go unnoticed. They don’t play with marbles, jump rope, pretend battles, or build treehouses like we did. They only care about their phones, iPads, and computers during their free time. Of course, I have no right to make them like what I liked because times have changed, and today’s life is much more prosperous and modern than back then. But it saddens me to think that today's children don’t have the same carefree, innocent childhood we had.

Perhaps the toys from our past are no longer of interest to today’s children, and they don’t even know about them. I fear that in the future, the childhood memories of today's children will only be filled with games on their lifeless phones.

Author: Nguyễn Hồng Minh

The Spinning Top of Old

4. Dream of the Past

"When the spring rice is still on the hills
We hear the thunder, mother carrying the child home."

The sky was bright, then suddenly darkened, and a storm began. The wind blew, dust filled the air. Purple water lilies swayed on the pond's surface, the wind was so strong that they were pushed to one corner. Kittens and puppies startled by the lightning thunder, hurriedly diving into their mothers' bellies. The sky was thick like a large bowl about to spill its contents onto the earth. Lightning flashed across the sky, followed by heavy rain, pounding on the ground like a millstone. The red brick yard welcomed the rain with a soft, clear sound. The rain had truly come. It poured down relentlessly. The trees bent under the force of the rain, while the lotus leaves folded to catch the cool drops from the sky. The rain splashed on the green rice fields, making the rice look like young girls. The rice danced with the wind and the rain. Seeds deep in the earth stirred and stretched to greet the rain. Lazy leaves, long asleep, suddenly curled up from the cold wind, then bloomed fresh and bright. Seeing the water bubbles form on the yard, my mother would say, "This first rain will be heavy and long." The water bubbles filled the yard. My little sister proudly showed off her loose tooth, laughing happily before running to grab paper from an old notebook to fold paper boats, setting them on the water in front of the house. Her tiny chubby hands pushed the boats to float along the water. The joy of it all filled her bright eyes as though she stood before an endless ocean. My father had stopped drawing when the sky darkened. With his pipe, he lit it up, the smoke curling like a mist in the thunder of March. The rain continued, the yard flooded, and the pond overflowed into the garden. The ditches and pathways were thick with fog. My father smiled and said, "This kind of rain makes the shrimp feel sorrowful, but the fish love it. They leap up in joy to greet the rain." The carp wanted to leap over the Dragon Gate to become a dragon, and the tilapia, itching with its scales, hoped to do the same. They leaped all around, up the roads and into the alleys. But too many leaps might end up in the frying pan. My little sister giggled at this...

Back in the old days, whenever it rained, fish and shrimp swam freely in the thunderous storm of March. The tilapia, mischievous and playful, would leap from the water and onto the yard, the path, or the village roads. Children eagerly wore the hats from their grandmothers or mothers and carried small bamboo sticks to catch the leaping tilapia. The moment the fish landed on the path or the shore, they were immediately speared onto the bamboo sticks. The little feet splashed in the water, and the bag of fish grew heavier as they happily carried them home. The thatched roof smoked from the fire, and the sound of sizzling oil in the pan filled the air. The tilapia, now cleaned and fried until golden and crispy, was served with fish sauce and fresh herbs for a rainy-day lunch. The delicious aroma still lingers to this day... Oh, how nostalgic...

Some children from poor families didn’t have any pork fat to fry the fish until it was crispy, but they would still clean the tilapia, gut it, and leave the golden roe wrapped in a lime leaf and roasted over the fire. The grilled fish, with its rich aroma, mixed with the refreshing scent of lime leaves in the cold rainy wind, made the eyes of those poor children light up. The warmth of the meal, with roasted fish and a bowl of sour soup with frogs and fresh chilies, would bring warmth to their hearts even before eating. My father, content and relaxed, looked at his children eagerly enjoying their rainy day feast.

I will never forget the rainy days when my father spent his last few coins for my mother to buy rams from the old man who set traps at the edge of the village. When the rain fell, the rams were especially fat. The traps, filled with muddy water and silt, were lifted up, and the strong, dark arms of the man raised the trap high. The rams clustered together tightly in the basket. The fat, black-shelled rams, and the plump, firm male ones, with their white claws exposed, were quickly processed. My sister skillfully used sharp scissors to trim the claws and feet, washing them clean before putting them in the mortar to pound finely. She didn't forget to add some salt to enhance the flavor of the crab meat so that the broth wouldn't break apart. The crab shells were carefully peeled, and the roe was gently taken out with a toothpick. There was nothing more delightful than the scent of sizzling onion oil, as the red crab roe was poured into the pan. The aroma wafted like the sunset’s golden rays, creating a stunning red glow in the pan. The crabs were then fried until crispy in oil, and the roe was stir-fried and poured into the pan. The crabs were bathed in the golden yellow of the roe, and the seasoning made the dish even more appetizing. The plump crab pieces were served with fresh mint leaves. The sweet flavor of the countryside mixed with the rich aroma of the crab dish is something I’ll always remember from the rainy days of long ago.

Though far away, my heart longs for my old village. I miss the sound of frogs croaking, the calls of the night birds in the dark sky. A wave of nostalgia sweeps over me. The sounds of the countryside, the fresh rice during the first harvest, and the taste of the simmering chạch chấu fish cooked with spices in the charcoal fire. I miss the figure of my mother crossing the bamboo bridge, the shadow of her frail figure making my heart ache with longing.

Oh rain! Oh days gone by... when will those beloved times return?

Lê Hà Ngân

The Dream of the Past

5. The Sounds of Yesteryears

I paused on the familiar road home, the golden moonlight spilling across the river, casting a gentle glow on the shimmering waves below. The streetlights had gone out, and the peaceful silence wrapped around me. A cool breeze from the river caressed my hair and cheeks, filling me with a refreshing sensation. From a distance, the familiar tune of a song from long ago reached my ears, drifting from a house shaded by trees near the riverbank, making me stop and listen intently. Oh, the melodies of my youth, of a carefree and innocent time, suddenly resurfaced in my heart, evoking a sky full of memories. If only life would let me turn back time, I would choose to return to those moments when we gathered together, practicing for a student talent show. It was the happiest period of my school years.

Youth passes by, and only then do we realize how beautiful it was, even though I have no regrets or doubts for having lived fully, burned with passion, and embraced youth. Still, it remains a cherished memory, forever etched in a corner of my heart. There are times when a trigger evokes those memories, and I search within myself, flipping through the pages of sweet recollections. Memories often fade with time, the dust of years covering everything, yet some remain as fresh and vivid as if they happened just yesterday. In my heart, there is always a longing to relive those moments, to return, even if just in a fleeting dream, it would be enough to satisfy my soul.

The time we practiced for the performance was in late autumn, as the cool winds started to blow. Students from various classes and courses were chosen for their love of music to create a choir for the student talent competition. We became known as the versatile, talented, and affectionate team.

Everyone was already a good singer with a passion for music, a good sense of rhythm, and when we gathered under the guidance of our teachers, we learned quickly and with great joy. I remember those afternoons when the air was cool, and the sky had a soft, grayish hue. From the third floor, the sound of our mixed voices—young men and women—singing in unison filled the air.

- One afternoon, walking down this path, yellow flower petals covered the ground. Hesitant, I thought to myself, ‘Why does the road to school seem so unfamiliar?’

The romantic lyrics fit perfectly with the carefree students, who felt like the world was their own, made just for them. The heads swayed to the rhythm, faces bright and lively, radiating energy with every note. The clear, pure sound of the song nurtured the spirit of our youth, a time of ‘butterflies and flowers, birds and sunshine.’ The music spread from the upstairs balcony like a wave of sound, reaching the green garden and the flowerbed where fresh chrysanthemums bloomed by the gentle lake breeze. That calming sensation has stayed with me ever since.

- Hanoi, this season, is missing the rain. The early winter chill, your scarf fluttering in the cold wind. The milk flower petals have stopped falling, and I’m with you on an afternoon after class...

When we practiced, we usually started with acapella, then added the music. The lyrics were vivid, evoking images, while the melody was sweet and deep. A choir of familiar faces, all of whom admired one another, sang together with great emotion. We sang and saw joy in each other's eyes, felt the happiness in our teachers’ gazes, and experienced the harmony in the music. Especially for couples, they sang with eyes shining with happiness, finding each other in every note. The moments spent in the song, in the friendship and love, were truly beautiful and unforgettable.

One of the girls in our choir, with her sweet, high voice, would hit the highest notes in such a pure and bright way. Innocent and charming, her personality shone through her singing. I remember most when she switched from major to minor in the song ‘The Vast Life’ by the late Trinh Cong Son. It was so endearing that it could melt anyone’s heart.

- In childhood, the flowers, butterflies, and birds shared the sun and rain. You stood beside me, loving life with all your heart...

Her voice, bright and clear in the high notes, soothing and warm in the lower ones, conveyed a love for life that flowed through the song, gently touching the soul. Even now, the sweetness of that moment remains with me.

The sound of that song nourished our youthful spirits, turning into memories, a time to remember, a youth bathed in melody and lyrics. Today, when I hear it again, I’m instantly filled with nostalgia, as if the girl with the bright smile is singing right in front of me.

- On the Vam River one moonlit night, the oars gently tapping the water’s surface…

Oh, how I miss those days...

Tuan Pham

The Sounds of Yesteryears

6. The Dirt Road of the Past

There are paths that lead us back to the cherished days of the past. I long for the chance to revisit those old roads once more. There, the dirt path stretches out to the rice fields and sweet potato gardens, with lush green grass lining the edges. Where is the road I used to walk every morning and evening? The dirt road of the past now exists only in my memories.

I remember those days filled with love and memories. A childhood full of hardship but shining brightly with vibrant colors.

There were evenings when my siblings and I would follow the worn path, eagerly awaiting the sight of our mother. The sky darkened, making it hard to see clearly. But we could always spot her, balancing baskets on her shoulders, carrying earth to plant sweet potatoes and yams to feed us. Meanwhile, our father would plant flowers for us to admire each dawn.

How I long to recall that time when my younger brother and sister would rush back home upon hearing that I was returning from my studies, braving the cold winter evening. The anticipation of seeing me made their hearts race. A basket of grass would fall, and their hats would be knocked off, but nothing mattered. The road seemed longer, yet the reunion felt so close. It was a joyous path, a path filled with love and happiness.

There was a dirt road, a small narrow path that led my siblings and me to the sweet potato patch on Cu Thi hill. After school, the three of us would dig up the yams to bring home just in time for dinner. Sometimes, when the rice ran out, our mother would boil small, tender yams. These yams were so soft that we didn’t even need to peel them.

I still recall the winding path that passed by Mr. Hiep’s house, crossing over a bamboo fence and following a trail along the bamboo hedge. That path led us to the dense bamboo groves of Nuong Dinh. There, we would call each other out on summer afternoons to gather bamboo leaves for cooking. One would carry a bag, another a broom, and the third a basket. Gathering bamboo leaves was as joyful as going to a festival. The heat of the summer and the gentle breeze didn’t stop us. The bamboo leaves rustled as they seemed to sing to us. When our bags and baskets were full, smiles would light up our faces. The bamboo leaves would accompany us back to the kitchen, where we used them to cook meals or even to prepare pig feed. That was a path of love, a path where we shared the burdens of our parents.

There was the muddy dirt road, slippery after the rain. We, the children of the village, walked this road to school. Our feet pressed into the wet earth as we went. We walked with the hope that one day we would escape the boundaries of this village, dreaming of attending prestigious schools and university halls. The dirt road had given wings to the dreams of poor children in this rural village, surrounded by bamboo hedges and rice fields. In my dreams, I would walk on a bustling road with the sound of car horns.

Those days of childhood, spent with family, friends, and beloved teachers, are now behind us. Is there any way to return to those days? Which path will lead us back to the past? That road, filled with the love and care of our parents, guided us through difficult times. It was the road of warmth, of family bonds, friendship, and the love of our teachers.

The road of my childhood is something I will always search for. Where is the dirt road where we once walked barefoot? Even today, as we walk on wide concrete roads, I still long for the days when the dirt path carried us through the warmth of those distant times!

Xoan Vương

The Old Dirt Road

7. The Little Girl from the Past

Now, I am a second-year student at the Pedagogical University. After the New Year's holiday, I returned home and had a chance meeting with old friends and teachers. Sitting together, we reminisced about the past. A wave of nostalgia rushed over me, as memories quietly found their way back.

Suddenly, I remembered those days when I was a small student with a white ao dai, long black hair, shy and reserved at Long Xuyen High School, two years ago. That little girl loved the elegance of the ao dai, the white of the chalk dust, and the innocent smile of the children. She was determined to pursue education, dreaming of becoming a teacher, contributing a small part to the nation's educational mission.