Top 10 Best Essays on Autumn

The late summer lingers, holding the season with each cluster of starfruit bending low, almost beckoning. Reaching up on tiptoe to pluck the ripe fruits feels like touching a distant childhood. That childhood was filled with dark-skinned children wandering the winding village paths, stopping beneath the old starfruit tree at the end of the lane. As they passed, they would always look up, searching for the last fruits of the season. The round fruits, like little suns, swayed in the breeze, teasing the children’s senses. Gone were the days of catching fallen fruit with a scarf; instead, they now reached for a bamboo pole with a hook. Before long, the small hands had gathered the sought-after fruits. They’d wash them, peel off the skin, and spiral the fruit into circles to dip in chili salt. The crispy skin, the chewy, translucent flesh, and the brown seeds inside. Once done, they’d all eagerly dive into their bowls. This was the taste of childhood—tart, salty, spicy!

As autumn arrives, a cool breeze carries the sweet scent of ripening guavas through the air. The fragrance is faint but unmistakably sweet. The guava tree, its branches fragile and thin, holds clusters of golden fruit, their honeyed glow reflecting the autumn light. Hidden behind a canopy of leaves, the ripe guavas blend with the soft sunlight, making them difficult to spot. From beneath the tree, one can hear the excited chatter of sparrows fighting over the fruit, their wings fluttering as they take off. The children, swift as ever, scramble up the tree to pick the ripest guavas. They first find the ones the birds have already nibbled, sitting perched on the branches, savoring each bite. Strangely, the half-eaten ones are the sweetest and most fragrant. Holding a ripe guava, its golden skin revealing a soft, pinkish interior, the fragrance fills the air. The scent sinks deep into the chest, curls into the hair, and rests on the shoulders. When the longan season passed, the sight of ripened guavas displayed in the house became a cherished ritual for us. The warm, gentle fragrance of autumn always made us feel as though our grandparents, parents, and loved ones were near.

Autumn has arrived along the Red River, calm and clear after the storms. The waters have returned, gentle and serene. In the afternoon, the children swim in the river, their skin reddened by the sun, only getting out when they are exhausted. The path home is lined with thick grass, its prickly flowers brushing against their skin, causing an itchy sensation. The vast fields stretch out towards Bat Trang, the wild flowers blooming in purple clusters. Behind them, Sister Dung, a fisherwoman, carries a basket of fresh fish, which she quickly sells to the villagers for their evening meals. The fish and shrimp are so fresh that they sell out in no time. At home, we would sometimes enjoy fried fish with garlic and chili sauce, or salted shrimp served with boiled water spinach, dipped in starfruit. On better days, we’d have sour soup made with river catfish. My mother would ask me to grill bitter gourds until they oozed resin, peeling off the charred skin to make a sour broth for the fish. My father would handle the fish carefully, as the sharp spines could prick and cause a numb pain. My sister’s task was to wash the vegetables and prepare the herbs. Each of us had a role to play, and around the dinner table, our home would be filled with laughter and joy, warmed by the flickering oil lamp after a day of hard work and study.

When the season had almost passed, we began preparing for the Mid-Autumn Festival. We never wasted the grapefruit seeds, instead gathering them, peeling off the skin, and removing the brown membranes until the seeds were white and shiny. We’d string them together with wire, drying them until crispy to make our homemade fireworks. The number of seeds we collected depended on our mother’s budget, but we would always make sure to gather more from neighbors. At that time, the tradition of collecting tin cans to make lanterns was quite popular. The children would gather around, cutting the cans, shaping them into lanterns, and filling them with wax from papaya stems. The more skilled among us would make star-shaped lanterns from colored paper, trimming the edges into fringes. And before long, we would have a well-stocked Mid-Autumn Festival. We would have pomelos from Nga’s house, guavas from Duong’s, and a variety of mooncakes from everyone in the neighborhood.

On Mid-Autumn night, the moon shone brightly. The sound of the frog drums echoed in the distance, urging the children to join the procession. The moment they heard that sound, the children quickly rushed to join the lively parade with lanterns. Leading the way was the lion dance troupe, with its grand head swaying rhythmically to the drumbeat. The smiling lion’s face, its round belly, and its loud laugh led the way, followed by the excited children. Some carried star lanterns, others wore crowns, some spun their lanterns, while those who were more fortunate had lion heads they’d bought from the famous Hàng Mã street. But we, with our homemade creations, felt just as joyful! The lively atmosphere was infectious, and we eagerly looked forward to gathering together under the moonlight to break the mooncake and celebrate.

One crisp autumn morning, I went with my mother to the small market by the dyke. At the end of the row, there were fish stalls run by women from the north bank of the Red River, who carried their catches across. In the corner, a basket of green stone clams caught my mother’s eye. She picked out the freshest ones. She always told me, “A good clam will have a full mouth and an open lid. Don’t buy clams during the full moon because they’re not as fresh.” I didn’t quite understand it then, but all I could think of was how soon we would be enjoying my mother’s delicious banana and clam soup. The steaming bowl, fragrant with herbs like Vietnamese coriander, perilla, turmeric, and the rich taste of green bananas, fried tofu, sour tamarind, and crunchy clams. Despite passing by the butcher’s stall, nothing could beat my mother’s cooking!

Now, having passed through many autumns, with the golden sunlight fading, I find it impossible to forget the taste of childhood. Perhaps the sour, bitter, and spicy flavors of life are simply another part of the flavors of my childhood, ones I’ve already experienced. Perhaps they also serve as motivation, giving me strength to face this year’s autumn, full of uncertainties.

Trần Thanh Nhàn

Do you love autumn?

I’m sure many would say it’s the season of love, a time when the soul is filled with emotions in tune with nature, a season of longing that leaves one feeling wistful, naive, in the midst of a quiet, lonely evening. So, why would we not be a bit lost in thought if our soul is not too old and hardened?

I love autumn in its sudden moments.

When the sunlight is as thin as silk, spreading and reaching all the way to the horizon. When the cool breeze seeps into my skin, bringing with it a feeling of coldness. When the air and colors mix together in a magical, endless transition. I love the trees, amazed, dressed in golden and red hues. I quietly watch these gentle autumn moments pass by, fluttering like a leaf falling from the branch.

I gently step on the dry leaves after a night of gusty winds. I wonder, is winter really coming?

It’s fleeting, but so delicate, in those moments when autumn transitions, when nature wishes to offer the last strands of its heart. The trees seem to strain, gathering all their remaining sap, pouring out every drop of love to nourish the yellow and red leaves, to keep them from falling too soon. In haste, they rush to display their final burst of life, revealing a mystical array of colors. They try to hold on to life as time marches on.

That’s why the world has its most perfect, most magnificent painting of nature during this time of year, one that no other season can rival. This beautiful painting isn’t found in any art museum. It exists right around us, full of wonder: the brown-red leaves of the maple, dancing with the wind, the pink and yellow hues mingling with green in the pear and peach orchards, the sunflower fields glowing brightly under the sun. In the distance, fluffy clouds float like cotton, resting atop the mountains, casting their reflections down into the river.

But these are sudden days, golden moments when the faint sunlight lingers.

Autumn here is often accompanied by light, lingering rains. Though they’re thin like mist, floating like smoke, they’re enough to blur my eyes and make the day seem forever gray.

The dawn wakes up near noon, and the sunset rushes away before the evening falls. The days grow unusually short, and before I know it, time passes quickly without a word.

I fear the somber, lonely sky, the quiet sadness that tugs at the heart. My footsteps feel aimless, uncertain, as I walk down the familiar road. After many years away, I feel my feet grow colder, heavier as autumn calls for winter. My soul is adrift, empty. Memories are things I can no longer touch. But in the attic of my heart, they reappear when I feel restless one autumn afternoon.

The familiar song begins to play, taking me back to a distant land.

"Hà Nội mùa Thu, cây cơm nguội vàng, cây bàng lá đỏ. Nằm kề bên nhau, phố xưa nhà cổ, mái ngói thâm nâu".

That’s my hometown, where the streets stretch quietly in the mist. Where the waters of West Lake glisten with the moonlight, gently rippling with the tiny waves. It’s the place where, when I’m tired and weary, I long to return and feel the warmth of love again.
Return? How many times has Hanoi welcomed me back, always in autumn?

I hear the early morning calls and feel a strange peace in my heart. I wake up in the house of my childhood, full of memories. The yellow lan flowers by the porch still gently release their fragrance, and I inhale deeply, as though afraid that tomorrow, I might never find this scent again.

I follow my mother to the morning market in autumn. The sky is high and clear, with a gentle breeze brushing through my hair, making my cheeks blush. I hold my mother’s hand tightly and suddenly feel like the little girl I once was. I want to hold onto that feeling forever, because I fear that when I leave, one day I’ll return and call out for her, only to find the sound of "mother" lost in the distance, and I’ll be left alone, wandering in the rural market.

Suddenly, the fresh, fragrant scent of new rice cakes, the ripe bananas kissed by the sun, the sweet air swirling around, the plump persimmons huddled together, the last of the custard apples waiting to be opened, and the ripe pomelo bursting with fragrance, all rush toward me. All the flavors of autumn are wrapped in the basket, as my mother and I walk back home.

I love those autumn afternoons, sitting in a familiar yet new café, where the view is as dreamy as the sky. I blend into the hurried crowd, walking along the street with trees as beautiful as a painting. Couples lean on each other, in love, sitting on the benches by the lake. A few women carrying flowers pass by, bringing autumn along with every step. I watch the waders as they continue their quiet journey in the deep red sunset, slowly sinking behind the distant horizon. I hear the ticking of time, falling gently on each leaf, and suddenly hesitate as the wind carries them higher into the sky.

I try to hold onto time, wishing it would stop. I want to preserve this peaceful moment forever, like keeping a tiny flame that warms the soul of one far from home, through the cold winter days. So that when we part, I’ll remember this beloved land, always ready to embrace me, soothing me after every hardship and worry.

My friend, don’t listen to tales of golden autumn in Europe and forget that Hanoi in autumn is incredibly beautiful. Listen to the sounds of life, still stirring out there. Hear autumn in the rustling leaves. You will feel all your worries disappear as you let your heart be bathed in the golden light, with the familiar fragrance of milk flowers.

Walking alone in the autumn night, the feeling of loneliness touches my core, awakening forgotten memories. I let my heart open, quickly gathering up my private thoughts, sending a little love to that distant land.

Tran Thuy

On the last days of summer, the golden sun lingers on the green leaves, reluctant to leave. The crimson phoenix flowers, heavy with thoughts, gradually fade away, swept by the wind. The cicadas’ hoarse song slowly dies out, until there is silence. Summer is about to pass. Everything waits for a new breeze to blow away the dust and exhaustion. And what about me? My eyes are tired and distant. Perhaps, I am waiting for autumn – the season that has woven both sorrow and joy from my childhood, composing a symphony of longing and nostalgia, a season that awakens me to memories of yesterday that today have become part of the past.

Someone once asked: All four seasons in Vietnam are beautiful, why do I feel so attached to autumn? It’s hard to answer clearly. I only know that when the cool autumn breeze sweeps through the evening, and the sky turns purple, my heart aches. Autumn is the season I love, I miss, and also the name of an unfortunate older sister who, year after year, I continue to remember and long for.

It’s strange how fate, whether by chance or design, led me to meet her on one autumn evening. As the darkness gradually enveloped the space, tiny raindrops fell on the grass, cooling my feet. Hunger urged me to hurry home. But the image of a young woman, around eighteen or twenty, sitting in a wheelchair, holding a half-sold lottery ticket, stopped me in my tracks. Her face was round like the full moon, and her deep, blue eyes carried the weight of sorrow. I walked closer and gently pushed the wheelchair along the grass with her, helping her finish selling the last ticket.

She, like me, loved autumn strangely. Perhaps it was the soft, gentle nature of autumn that appealed to us. The autumn sun was mild, not harsh or biting, allowing everyone to relax and breathe more easily, shedding the pressures of life. Autumn rain wasn’t torrential but gentle, with crystal-clear drops that brought me endless, wandering emotions. The rural roads where milk flowers bloomed like smiles, filling the air with the fragrance of the countryside, were places where we often went to relieve stress. Life is often ironic, filled with contradictions. Unfortunate people often have an intense will to live. Her face lit up, and her eyes sparkled with joy when the falling petals touched her dress and the afternoon sun kissed her dark hair. She swayed her shoulders as if dancing with the flowers to welcome the arrival of a beautiful autumn.

That Mid-Autumn festival, we were together. The sounds of drums and cheers invited everyone to join the festivities. Her face was radiant, and her eyes sparkled as she watched the lion dancers. The moonlight danced on her dark hair, making her appear strangely beautiful. When the festival ended, she remained in her wheelchair, spinning slowly on the sandy ground at the edge of the village, under the moon’s gaze, which showered countless silver strands. Her eyes searched the distant horizon, where the white clouds floated gently with the wind. She was waiting for her late grandmother, who had promised to always be by her side after her parents left her due to the family’s breakup. Her grandmother had promised to watch over her from behind the clouds during every full moon. The tears in her eyes slowly fell down her cheeks. She cried as if she wanted to pour out all the misfortunes and sufferings of her life. Everything was eerily quiet. The moon, the wind, the clouds… seemed to hold their breath in sympathy with this beautiful girl named Autumn.

After that autumn, I left the poor village and moved to the city with my family. On the day of our departure, my heart was heavy and confused. I hugged her tightly and whispered in her ear that we would meet again someday. She tried to hide her tears to put my mind at ease. As the wheelchair rolled away, I didn’t dare look back, even though my heart ached with the memories I left behind. Perhaps from that moment on, autumn became a strangely sad season for me.

Years passed, and autumn arrived once more. The memories of her and the autumn we shared still linger in my heart:

“Do you hear the wind calling?
Autumn quietly returns.
What makes the sun so sad?
And leaves me speechless?
What memories still remain?
Falling from the old leaves
Yearning to be a child again
To reunite once more.”

Collected by

Autumn arrives softly, like the footsteps of a child, guiding me back home where my mother is preparing the evening meal. The scent of cooking smoke gently intertwines with the mix of joy and sadness in this clear countryside, where emotions flow freely. My siblings and I eagerly await dinner, yet our eyes remain fixed on the kites soaring in the vivid sky. A trace of sunlight lingers over the mountain slope, a reminder of summer sending its farewell to autumn, stirring a deep sense of longing. What breeze stirs my memory, making me yearn for the peaceful, carefree days of childhood? Autumn is always like that—it quietly evokes bittersweet emotions, calms the soul, and fills the heart with warmth. It gently clears the worries and nourishes the love we feel. Autumn fills my mind, making it hard to distinguish my thoughts from my feelings.

In the calm days of autumn, children rush to school with eager steps. The sound of the teacher’s lessons and the joyful chatter of classmates fill the air, returning the familiar peace to my heart. Late blooms of the phoenix flower reluctantly bid summer goodbye, falling slowly as if with a whispered farewell. Each petal, pressed between the pages of a student’s notebook, becomes a butterfly fluttering in the memories of days long gone. I don’t wish to hold onto summer’s vivid sunshine or its loud, joyful energy. I want only to embrace the soft, coolness of autumn, carrying with me a little summer sunshine, a breeze passing over green fields, a sudden rain that soaks me in pure innocence, and the image of my mother walking down a narrow path on a windy afternoon. Every little piece of summer that I gather into autumn lingers like the last rays of the day clinging to the branches of a tree or the distant hills. Quietly, persistently. Softly, warmly. Longing, filled with love. This is autumn in my heart.

Some people say that in my central hometown, there are only two seasons: rainy and dry. Where are the four seasons? Although we know the weather isn't gentle enough to call it spring, with the harsh yellow sun making summer. The wind is faint, and the rain doesn’t rush enough to signal autumn, only the drizzles and storms making a wet winter. But if you listen carefully, the gentle falling of a leaf as it completes its life cycle and the breeze ringing the chimes of the wind, you will feel autumn has arrived. Sometimes, it's just a bit of summer’s sunshine resting on the tips of the grass, or an early winter rain signaling autumn’s arrival. Occasionally, the fragrance of milk flowers calls the arrival of autumn’s first day, reminding me of the love and memories of the past. Autumn in my heart is like that—quiet, intertwined, hard to define in thought, filled with gentle warmth and lingering feelings. Only the cool chill of the evening signals that my memories are deeply soaked in the flavors of autumn.

Sometimes, time quietly ushers me into old age without anyone noticing. Seasons bring many emotions, making it easy to open my heart to life. Spring brings youth and vitality. Summer plants joy and youthfulness. But as life slows down, the awareness of the season’s change surprises me. Autumn, gentle and serene, prepares us for the winter reunion and plants the seeds for spring. It seems the world around me is quieter, the sky clearer, the wind softer, and my heart, too, is more at peace and filled with quiet nostalgia. Autumn is also the time for students to return to school, the air filled with excitement as we reunite with teachers and friends. And there are many people struggling to make a living in the quiet rhythm of everyday life. I can almost hear someone silently watching the sparrows chirping in the trees, listening to the distant cooing of doves. Autumn brings so many different emotions. For me, I want to pause for a moment, breathe in the scent of the sky and earth, and reflect. Looking back at the years that have passed, I imagine tomorrow, when my heart is at peace in the wistful autumn air. I realize that sometimes in life, all we need is peace. And I also realize that if we compare human life to a year, autumn marks the middle age, a time when we show our strength. Autumn always surprises us in that way.

So many autumns have quietly passed through my life, but only when my heart feels heavy do I realize how simple and unexpectedly beautiful autumn is. Perhaps it’s time to stay a little longer, walk a little slower, and savor the autumn air as I feel it. It’s as if my soul has aged, but just a slight chill, a ray of sunlight, a breeze, a falling leaf, or a graceful figure in a white ao dai on the road makes my heart flutter, tight with emotion.

Autumn arrives and departs quietly.
Perhaps autumn is only for those who listen with their hearts and truly experience it.

Ngô Văn Cư

The most stunning palette of leaves might be when the earth and sky enter autumn. In autumn, the leaves turn yellow, trembling with regret as they prepare to fall, swaying on the grass, carpeting the paths by the season’s end… Watching the leaves fall, one can’t help but be lost in thought.

From the moment the buds begin to sprout to when they return to the earth, each leaf is like a musical note, flowing through the spectrum of the four seasons: spring, summer, autumn, and winter. The leaves have their own life and destiny, beginning with the rich green color as they courageously emerge from the tough shell of a seed or branch, maturing and growing familiar with the rain and light, becoming strong and resilient. Leaves interlace with others, providing life and vitality to the tree, sheltering it with pride, and ultimately offering themselves back to the earth, contributing to the cycle of life. The leaf has lived, wearing countless colors—green, yellow, orange, red, and faded hues...

In the basic color palette, there is one for the leaf; in the four seasons of the year, there is one for fallen leaves. Leaves are beautiful, yet not every leaf is lucky enough to live out its full life. Some leaves never reach their full shape; some must fall in the prime of youth. And thus, each type of tree, each leaf, carries its own mission, beauty, and meaning in life. And when the leaves fall, burying themselves in the earth, they continue their transformation, nourishing the next generation of plants and future life. When the leaves fall, it does not signify an end, but the beginning of new life. The leaves quietly offer themselves and quietly depart, invoking in us the concept of peaceful release, following the laws of nature.

This morning, as I stepped outside, I saw many leaves on the ground, and I thought autumn had arrived. But it’s only the end of spring, and autumn is still far off. The abundance of fallen leaves in spring—could it be the weather changing, or do the lives of leaves grow shorter with time?

I love autumn, I love each leaf. I often dream of walking on a path covered with golden and red leaves in the temperate regions of Korea or Europe. But then, I “return to autumn and tidy up,” and I place these dreams in the quiet corners of my heart, to love more the things that are present and close to me, to love the yellow, withered leaves in my hometown, a remote region of the foothills. My hometown, Tien Phuoc, does not have the lingering moments between summer and autumn, nor the dazzling hues, but the trees still quietly shed their leaves every afternoon. How sad and regretful it is to see the beautiful leaves, knowing their short life, and it makes me think of the uncertain nature of human life...

Nguyễn Thị Diệu Hiền

Thank you, autumn, for greeting me with the overwhelming fragrance of milk flowers as I return to the city after a long journey. It's as if it wants to burst into song, breaking the silence...

One morning drenched in golden sunlight. On the leaves, the tiny purple milk flowers blossom, whereas this year, strangely, they are only just turning green. Somewhere, the sound of a rooster crows from a small coop—perhaps a city dweller yearning for the countryside, raising them in a corner of the yard. The restless ripples on the lake seem to resonate with the slanting sunlight, like delicate silk, together with the tree branches gently swaying, making the space before me seem like it wants to fly, vibrate, and sing...

I once wished everything would stop at this very moment, a moment when I took in a deep breath, spread my arms wide, and yearned to embrace it all. A moment when I wanted to turn to stone, forever immersed. A moment when a melody of love and freedom echoed within me...

On crisp mornings, when I have—like autumn itself—gone through the passionate intensity of youth, I now have enough time to slowly gaze at the innocent dreams, smile at my reflection in the mirror, and see the sorrow and happiness resting at the corners of my eyes, in my hair, on my hands marked with veins...

How fortunate I am, not yet old enough to forget the faces of the past, not yet old enough to dwell too much on regrets, not yet old enough to stop feeling moved by this morning. And not yet old enough to forget to thank life for awakening me. What more do I need, other than peace, which can only come from within, if not from this soul that wants to harmonize with this warm morning sun?

Thank you, autumn, for greeting me with the overwhelming fragrance of milk flowers as I return to the city after a long journey. It's as if it wants to burst into song, breaking the silence...

I remember an old poem:
But the milk flowers, oh, the milk flowers
Spread their green blooms, releasing waves of melancholy fragrance...

This season, those fragrant waves are not sad. They are excited, heavy on the green canopy, eager on the moss-covered walls, bustling in the corners of streets that are usually quiet, filled with forgotten memories. They are eager, or perhaps I am eager, for these beautiful days that I always fear will pass too quickly, like a blink of an eye...

Some beauties make one tremble, some loves make one wish to keep expressing them. I am expressing my endless love for autumn… Expressing my love for the fragrance of flowers, the lake, the sky, the migrating birds, the magnificent sun in its solitary, proud beauty...

And this morning, I sit by the lake, but it is a constantly changing lake, sometimes rippling with restless waves, sometimes clear with wispy white clouds reflected, sometimes gray and melancholic...

Only light can transform this lake and my perception of it. I have written before about light—the source of light. About the transformation of all things under the sun. People are like that too, only the fortunate can find their own source of light, only the fortunate can walk towards someone and say: You are the light of my life! That light makes our lives sparkle, whether we are glass or diamonds.

When I was born, I had only one duty: TO BE MYSELF. For myself, I believe I have a duty to BE HAPPY. And happiness is never dependent on someone else; it must be the emotion within, defined by each complete moment of life, the life I have lived. And happiness is not something vague that may come to us by luck, not something we can beg someone to give us, not a road or a destination. Happiness, simple yet distant, is a choice.

Don’t think happiness is only about joy and smiles. Happiness sometimes resides in tears. It’s about stretching your tired, fragile legs beneath a sky that has just passed through a storm, forgiving all the hurts life and people bring, soaring alone in the boundless sky of freedom. And forgetting yesterday’s sadness, forgetting departures without regrets...

I have loved some sorrows, as if they were born to show me how strong and resilient I could be, or to show me how much I could collapse. And I always want to smile… some smile.

That smile, is the title of a book by Segan. I haven’t read it yet, as it’s a precious birthday gift I just received today. But the book’s title has always evoked a sense of mystery about life, about happiness and sadness… Where is that smile, from whom?

I won’t think about that now, because at this moment, I want to fully embrace the joy and love I have.

Thank you, Life!

Thank you, autumn, for greeting me with the overwhelming fragrance of milk flowers as I return to the city after a long journey. It’s as if it wants to burst into song, breaking the silence...

One time, my daughter asked me: "Mom, what color is autumn?" Autumn's color, you ask? I told her: "Look around, maybe it's the faded dream-like hue of falling leaves, the vibrant green of tender rice shoots, the golden honey-like hue of the sunlight that pours down."

It could also be the pink of ripening guava or the light blue of the clouds drifting lazily in the clear sky. My daughter was silent, nodding in agreement as if lost in her own world of imagination. Yet, that was still not enough. To me, autumn is not only filled with bright colors, but also with deep, somber tones. For autumn, in my heart, is the season that carries my deep sympathy for the struggles of women.

I feel for my mother who endured countless storms and hardships. I feel for her as she worked tirelessly every March 8th. Autumn is also the season for storms, as my hometown is known for its hurricanes. These were days of long, endless rain, pouring as though to make up for the scorching heat of the dry, searing wind of the plains. In the midst of these rains, my mother would rush to care for her children, pigs, and chickens. She wore a raincoat, but was soaked through, inside and out. On stormy nights, with thunder booming, the wind howling, and the lamps flickering out, water would pour in from the window sills, and rain would fall from the broken roof tiles. Our house would be flooded. The children huddled in corners, trying to stay dry, while the older ones helped their mother, who would cover and patch things up here and there.

At times, the younger children would scream in fear from the thunder. My mother would rush to console them, saying: "It's okay! It's okay! It will pass!" But how could it pass? My father was out at sea, far away. Her words reassured us, though. I could hear her voice over the storm, clear and full of love, sheltering us with her strength! Her voice was the voice of resilience!

For many years, my mother braved the wind and rain, facing storms. Autumn, to me, brings not only gusts and storms, but also the hardship of my parents. When I think of my mother, I see autumn as the color of deep, infinite sorrow, more profound than the word 'love' itself.

I also feel for my grandmother, who lived a life of hardship and struggle. She was widowed at an early age. She passed away on a day when the autumn fruit was ripe and sweet. She left us after years of tending to her garden, giving us ripe guavas and sweet pomelos. She passed away when she was ill, and at the time, my father, uncles, and brothers – the strong men – were out at sea. It was the women and in-laws, confused and lost, who took care of her funeral. Back then, there were no communication devices like today, so we could only wait by the river. In the haze of memory, I still see myself and my older sister sitting at the riverbank, waiting. That day, the river seemed to flow slower, more solemnly.

As the sun set, the men of our family returned. I heard my cousin tell me, "Uncle, she’s gone." She spoke through tears, her voice choked with sorrow. My father and uncles, too, were silent. How many lives do we have? When a loved one passes away and we aren’t there for the final moments, the grief lingers so deeply! At that moment, I realized that autumn's color for me was the color of regret, sorrow, and the inevitable separation.

When summer fades into autumn, the air in my hometown is still unbearable. After the rains comes the sun, and the children in our village still run to the river to play. Yet, some children never return from those waters. I feel an immense sadness for the mothers who walk along the riverbanks and beaches, calling for their children. Their voices fade, fade away. And eventually, they can only call their children with their breath.

But these calls are carried by the wind, floating down the river and out to the ocean. The cries, full of memories of lives touched by these stories, are heard by many. For many years, those cries have lingered. Among these women is my aunt. She, too, experienced a living death when she lost two children within three months: one in summer, the other at the start of autumn. One died of illness, the other drowned, following the call of the ocean! Looking at her, I see the ultimate cruelty of fate!

In the past, when the pomelo fruit's fragrance filled the village, especially in the seventh month of the lunar calendar, it was also the time when the children of our village drowned the most. People in our village explained it as the hungry spirits of the month of wandering souls who took the children! Perhaps this was just a comforting explanation for the painful grief. I cannot even name the pain my aunt felt, or that of those mothers. If I were to compare it, I would say their pain is as long as the river, as vast as the sea! At this moment, autumn's color in my heart is the color of helplessness, despair, and sorrow!

The autumn in central Vietnam is not gentle like the autumn of the north. The villagers often say, "The August sun ripens the pomelo fruit." It's true. What autumn is this when the wind is sharp and the sun relentless? In the midst of such heat, the plants and people seem to feel a sorrow that I deeply empathize with, especially the women of my seaside village.

The fishing boats return at all hours, depending on when the fish are caught or when their fuel runs out. Sometimes, they return at dawn or late in the afternoon, and the women rush to carry the fish to sell at the village market. Their steps, shaky from the weight of their burdens, the slippery mud, and the soft sand, are hurried. Sweat pours down their faces, faded from the sun and rain. I can almost taste their breath, salty from their sweat, the sea breeze, and their daily struggles.

Many women live like this, their shoulders growing thinner, their burdens heavier. They carry the weight of their families, the future of their children, the passing seasons of autumn. Looking at them, I see that autumn is colored with suffering and hardship.

I see that the long lives of these women are fundamentally sad and painful. Yet, despite everything, these women have still managed to hold on to joy and hope. Because without joy, without hope, how could they continue to live?

On the road we walk, sometimes we need to stop for a moment, reflect, and think about the people around us. In the stillness of autumn, filled with minor keys, I still feel an overwhelming sense of love. Because I know that I lean on these women to gather strength, love, and compassion. And that alone helps me stay calm and keep going...

Nguyễn Hương

A bit of sunshine, a gentle breeze, the soft pale hue of autumn leaves, and the clear blue sky… That is autumn.

Autumn – the trees and streets are wrapped in a vibrant yellow coat. The bright yellow of the sunlight; the dazzling yellow of the chrysanthemums, proud in the cool breeze; the golden yellow of persimmons among the green leaves…

Autumn – one can easily find peaceful, sweet moments even in the bustling streets. It is when the harsh summer sun gives way to a fresh and cool atmosphere.

Autumn – the world becomes gentle, shy like a maiden in love. In the dry breeze, there’s also the faint scent of lotus flowers lingering in the pond, and the older lotus leaves still holding on, waiting to nurture new seeds. Autumn is also filled with the fragrance of milk flowers.

This morning, autumn feels different, with flowers bursting into color as if they are offering their vitality accumulated through the summer heat, ready to spread their fragrance. Along with them are many fruits enticing with their aromas. The ripe guavas are turning golden in the wind; the pomelos are plump, juicy, and sweet, swaying in the garden, waiting for someone; the ripe persimmons…

Autumn also quietly brings rain, light drizzles that last all day and night, making the air damp and filled with a cool mist.

Sometimes autumn surprises us, just like life itself. After the intense heat and passion of summer comes the calm, deep maturity of middle age, when one’s perspective and thoughts are refined into life experiences.

I’ve once wanted time to stop in this very moment, as I breathe deeply, open my arms wide, and long to embrace it all. In that moment, I wanted to freeze, forever, to be immersed. In that moment, my soul resonated with an endless melody of love and freedom.

On fresh mornings, after experiencing the youthful passion of my early years, I now have the time to slowly reflect on my naïve dreams, to smile at my reflection in the mirror, noticing the quiet sorrow and happiness that reside in the corners of my eyes, at my hairline, in the veins of my hands…

Autumn! The ripples on the lake seem to echo with the golden rays falling like silk, the branches swaying with leaves shaking gently, making the entire space in front of me feel as if it is about to lift off, vibrate, or speak… As a child, I often wondered, what will I remember about my friends, my classroom, my seat, when I grow up, having passed through many autumns? But time has answered me, that autumn still holds for us countless memories.

Autumn – a gentle season for the earth and sky, a gentle season for the soul, a season for new beginnings, a season of mystical, fairy-tale-like moons! That is autumn. To love autumn is to feel warmth, love, and happiness. And autumn always opens its heart to welcome everyone. Such is enough to make us love our homeland, our country even more. Autumn – a season that weaves countless moments of happiness in each of us!

Dương Thị Huyên

It is now August! August, when Autumn knocks gently on my heart with a light, drizzling rain, with a pale, melancholic sunlight spreading across the streets, with a cool breeze that caresses the skin, with the sound of footsteps rustling on fallen leaves, and at night, the half moon hangs low in the sky. Half of the autumn sky is soft, melancholic, making one’s heart feel a bit uneasy.

Autumn has arrived! The intense summer heat disappears, replaced by the refreshing autumn breeze, and the cicadas hide in silence, leaving space for sparrows to chirp happily in the mornings and evenings. Autumn sheds the golden summer coat and dons a sky-blue hue.

The natural scenery is soft and dreamy, decorated by the faint sunlight that wanders through tree branches and winding streets, where scattered yellow leaves fall. The clouds, drifting in various shapes, lazily float above towering buildings. Autumn’s gleam shines through every window, blending with the thin autumn mist in the morning sunlight.

Autumn pushes time forward, yet remains eternally young, forever fresh, inspiring artists with its endless beauty. The sound of falling leaves fills the air, and Autumn whispers through poetry. It stirs deep feelings, carrying memories from long ago, and continues to haunt us. And how much longer will Autumn’s longing persist? Oh, August in Autumn. Autumn arrives with August, and emotions ride along with it. But strangely, Saigon tries to hide Autumn. It pretends to only have two seasons: rainy and dry. But no matter how hard Saigon tries to hide Autumn in the evening rains, how can it stop people from eagerly awaiting the arrival of this season? Everyone knows that Autumn has come knocking. Though Autumn is slightly melancholic, it matters not. No matter what, I love Autumn. I adore Autumn with its soft, yet vivid sunlight that touches everything gently and alluringly.

The shimmering sunlight wraps around me like a cocoon, as if I am wrapped in a delicate layer of warmth. I wonder, could one day, as I walk through the sunlight, my heart take flight? I love the familiar roads I walk every day. Along these roads, there are rows of trees shedding leaves, covering the street with a golden carpet of fallen leaves. Occasionally, a leaf drifts onto my hair, and I carry it with me, pressing it carefully between the pages of my notebook as a keepsake.

Many years from now, when I turn back and remember, the old seasons will return, and my heart will ache with nostalgia. I love the autumn breeze that cools and caresses the skin. Every autumn, the breeze gets colder, sharper, enough to make the heart slow down for a few moments, sending my thoughts back to those distant memories of youth, filled with dreams. Back then, in the afternoons, I would stroll down the streets hand in hand, playfully tossing handfuls of leaves into the air, laughter echoing in the open sky.

I also love the old coffee shop on some street corner, where years ago, I would sit at a hidden corner, lost in thoughts while watching the people pass by. I imagined life like those floating hourglasses, each with its own amount of sand, slowly running down... one year, five years, ten years, thirty years, sixty years... until it all runs out.

Life ends when the sand runs out! I dream of the worries of the heart taking shape as clouds drifting through the sky. The clouds drift on and on towards the horizon, though no one knows where the horizon lies. The clouds never stop, always searching for something to anchor them... I shudder and retreat to the wall, seeking peace. If I were a snail, I would hide in my shell, escaping life’s worries. I don’t know why Autumn always stirs my heart, but every time Autumn arrives, I like to listen to Bằng Kiều sing 'Autumn Has Died.' His clear, soaring voice repeats: 'Autumn has died, remember this, Autumn has died, remember this, Autumn has died, remember this... ooo!' The lyrics echo in my heart, leading me into a deep contemplation as I sit quietly, watching Autumn unfold, slowly passing with time. Oh, August in Autumn, my thoughts are scattered, drifting like someone in a shallow sleep, half-awake, half-dreaming.

This morning, on an autumn day, while walking through the park, I picked up a yellow leaf with five star-shaped points. I smiled to myself as I searched for more among the tall trees. I felt an unusual joy, as if I had just discovered a treasure from time itself. The sky is clear, my eyes are clear, and my smile is clear. Somewhere, inside the buildings around me, someone’s sleep is also clear... I softly mutter two lines of poetry I learned during my student days, though I can’t recall the author’s name:

'Every morning it rains, so you dream longer.'

'Autumn's five colors return, and the bubbles float fast.'

While others are still lost in their late-night sleep, I will rise early, walking around, watching Autumn arrive. August in Autumn, my own personal Autumn.

Author: Quách Mỹ Kiều

I walked towards the red-tinged river – my loyal companion throughout the years of youthful folly. Many times I dreamed, strapping on my backpack and dreaming… to walk endlessly. I searched for autumn…

There, the sun rises, rosy on my cheeks. Mist lingers, rising in the little one’s yearning. Wishing for a day to soar like a bird – wandering, unaware of a destination. There is the ferry crossing the river, just as the sun peeks through the clouds. Countless times I thirsted – only once, the little one stepped onto the ferry. Crossing the river. Crossing the river, just to see what’s on the other side. Is it a mulberry grove? A field of sugarcane green like a dream? Or is there a silly boy also yearning, wishing? That side is forever a world of green, an unknown secret…

I walked towards the embankment. The embankment, the first day mother took me to school. Hiding behind mother on the teal Mifa bicycle, the little one longed to wave at the brown sparrows – as they chirped by the purple periwinkle bushes. They soared away. The little one paused, vaguely sensing the loss of something… Upon reaching the school gate, fear overwhelmed, and I cried out, my back soaking my mother’s shirt. Oh, the first fear of my life, as green as fresh tamarind leaves…

It’s still that embankment. Father took me to school during autumn of my ninth-grade year. The bicycle ran alongside. Bumpy stones. Potholes scattered. We chatted and laughed. Father pointed out the Red River, the sails spreading far towards the horizon. And those faraway horizons… Gentle wind blew. White clouds drifted. The first trip of my life, thirty kilometers to the provincial school, was simple like that. The embankment stood tall, stretching endlessly, soft velvet grass, endless green bamboo. The little one eagerly walked, all the way to that faraway, green land…

Father turned the bike back, the little one waved her hand. Autumn afternoon tilted downward. The rural child, fifteen years old, wandered in the city. Lost. Confused. Anxious. The homesickness surged, wet with the morning mist, damp through the night. Saturday. She decided to ride her bike home after two days that felt longer than a century…

The city behind her. Ahead, the embankment welcomed her, softer than her mother’s heart. Her legs surged, breath quickened. She pedaled frantically, as if a traveler crossing a river feared missing the boat. The chain slipped. She stopped, sweating, struggling to fix it. Messy hands. Never mind. She hurried on, as if time wouldn’t wait. That was her first experience of homesickness. The long Red River embankment embraced…

Every weekend, a friend saw her off. Still on that autumn embankment. The misty chill. Crape myrtle flowers, purple periwinkle bloomed. Yellow phoenix flowers brightened. The faint call of cows in the distance. He turned his bike. She held back her emotions: “Don’t look back.” But then, as if by an invisible force, she couldn’t control herself. The friend stood, silently watching her leave. Hesitant. Her heart skipped a beat. What was the sunlight, for both their cheeks were flushed. The moment she turned back at fifteen, only that autumn afternoon could hold it in memory, as a witness…

I walked towards my youth. Once again, my backpack on, the old iron box accompanying me on another long journey away from home. The girl stepped onto the bus on that first autumn morning, asking herself when she’d return. The bus moved… Just she and the past whispered. No father to guide the way. The country girl was once more setting foot on a strange land.

And the sunlight. And the breeze. And the rustling of bamboo groves. And the river, the fields left behind… The bus drove on. She still looked back, wishing to embrace the gentle autumn morning, filled with longing. But then, a bird suddenly appeared in the sky, flying across the silver clouds. The sky widened, a deep blue. She walked on, without a second thought…

The town that welcomed her was not bustling or noisy as she had imagined. It felt like a lost dream. Empty. The provincial school girl felt deeply sad. The town felt like an unfinished poem, like a rough country boy, clumsy and awkward. The first nights in the dormitory were shaky, she was like a guest adrift on a boat of yearning – on a river without a shore. Only the sweet smell of milk soothed her in the stillness of the night.

On countless late afternoons, standing on the balcony watching the town shift, she yearned to breathe in the smoky haze of the rainy days. She longed for a warm evening meal at her mother’s house. Oh, those twilight dinners – when the village lights flickered on, as her childhood felt distant. And she, the girl far from home, forever distant…

Then, one true autumn night, she heard the sound of a flute. Oh, the bittersweet, soaring notes of a boy she did not know, yet was captivated by. What did he wish to say, yet his flute carried a sadness? Many autumn nights passed, the sound of the flute echoed up to her dorm on the fifth floor, weaving into her dreams. A softening heart. It seemed that this town – no longer was it just that rough country boy…

One late autumn day, she received a letter from an old friend. He said he had gone far away. She did not cry. A sad Saturday. Rain fell in the countryside. The bells of the local church rang, like pouring sorrow into the city. She sat with her knees drawn up, gazing out of the window. Was there a leaf drifting through the emptiness, though it was still green?

The song 'Yesterday Once More' suddenly played from the room next door. The melody slipped through the cracked walls, the silent hallway, each note etched into her heart, painfully. One note lifted her deep into an unknown place. She thought her soul was like a waterfall – endlessly flowing. Each phrase resonated. The eighteen-year-old student was lost, floating, adrift in an unfamiliar world, vague and far away. She dissolved, dissolved… and faded away in those words:

“All the best memories
Come back to me so clearly
Some memories even make me cry
Just like before
Those days have come back once more…”

A whole old film, perfectly preserved. The autumns passed… She decided to step out into the streets. Wandering. Aimlessly plucking a pure white magnolia flower, letting it float on the lake. A boy from the literature department appeared out of nowhere, hesitantly: “Hey, I think you dropped something…”

She looked up and met his deep, endless gaze, as if she had known him from another lifetime. She startled, looking at him with questioning eyes. He smiled gently: “Remember, your youth is here, in this place!” And just like that, one sentence from that autumn afternoon friend changed the entire youth of that silly girl.

She immersed herself in the bougainvillea vines behind the classroom window. She strolled on the hills with her best friend. She stepped into a garden of love, as beautiful as a dream. She burned brightly for every exam season… Youth passed… She turned back to look. Regret lingered over that autumn…

She officially stood on the podium. Her first autumn in the world of students, she forgot her longing, her thirst to hold onto youth. No! She plunged into the youth of her students. Throbbing with laughter and tears, farewells and reunions.

She tied her heart to the farewell of that student – the student with sad eyes, like the river after a flood. What will become of that orphan before life’s crossroads? The poem 'End of the Year Yearning' and the bouquet of milk flowers still linger in her heart. He secretly placed them in her bike basket when he bid her farewell to go to school. She could only look at him, her heart aching, as he disappeared into the autumn…

Staring blankly at the porch, I gazed out at the empty street. The season had changed, but autumn had disappeared somewhere. No mist lingered. No fog closed the path. The town nestled in quiet contemplation. A melancholic emptiness. I was about to board the train, searching for the autumns…

But then, a train appeared – a train named humanity, rushing through the heart of the storm. The express train from north to south, regardless of day or night, ignoring the madness of the Covid storm. It didn’t matter. The train sped on. I stood, waving, without hesitation, rushing to catch up, boarding the train…

“All the best memories
Come back to me so clearly
Some memories even make me cry…”

The melody of 'Yesterday Once More' echoed again in her heart. She knew for sure it would keep playing. It would continue to play like a refrain throughout her life. To remind her that she has had, is having, and will always have these autumns…

Dương Châu Giang