Top 10 Best Essays on Childhood Memories

Carrying the burdens of the present back to the past, I rediscover my childhood. It was beautiful! Truly. My childhood was painted with the dull colors of a poor rural area. The sun and the wind were mesmerizingly beautiful. In my hometown, there were no fragrant rice fields, no streams, and certainly no mountains or forests. Only the colors of sun-drenched leaves, the vast stretches of mangrove, brackish marshlands, and small coastal trees. There were salty mudflats, where I found my childhood again, surrounded by other children of the same age, our bodies covered in gray mud, the stench of fresh mud and seawater lingering.

Looking back on those years, a flood of memories comes rushing back, some happy, some sad. But all of them remind me that I had a childhood. It was a beautiful childhood, even more beautiful than the oil paintings of artist Tô Ngọc Vân, even more vivid than the pink dreams of my younger days. Reflecting on the past, going back in time, I realize how carelessly and quickly I passed through those years. I never had time to listen to the earth's breath on those hot summer days, or to smell the fresh mud that I thought was still around. But it passed by quickly, and I remember nothing. The mangrove forests, with a few scattered trees of black mangrove, used to hum like a waterfall at noon. But now, I can't remember the echo of that sound anymore. The memories of catching clams by the salty flats, how could they not include me? I was always eager to dive into the brackish land, simply because the smell of the saltwater helped shape my childhood. Some days, a group of us, almost a dozen kids, would dive into the canals. Some would compete to see who could hold their breath longer, while others raced to swim the furthest. Oh, how magical those years were! But where have they gone? Why did they silently slip away? And so, all that's left is the solitude of those long-lost childhood days. Now, everything has changed, but the souls of those days, I still cherish them, always waiting for the 'voice from childhood.'

Floating along with the tide, I let my soul drift into the afternoon breeze. I gaze at my hometown's river with a sense of nostalgia and longing. The river is brackish, always in sync with the deep ocean tides. The salty taste of the sea has nourished me, and how could I ever forget? Every time I look at that river, it brings tears to my eyes. Perhaps because it's here, on this river, that I still catch glimpses of my father. Despite the passage of time, the river has changed. There are fewer trees on the banks, and fewer people live near it. But... the biggest change is that on this river, no one can see my father's figure anymore. There's no more wooden boat full of fish, shrimp, crabs, and oysters. There's no more laughter or sweat from my father. People often remember their hometowns through beautiful memories and lovable images. But I remember mine with mixed emotions, both laughter and tears of longing.

In the poem 'Hometown' by poet Đỗ Trung Quân, it says, 'What is hometown, mother? Even when far away, I miss it so much.' If I ever met the poet, I would answer without hesitation: my hometown is everything—it is the trees, the river, my childhood friends, and my father. Now, it seems that my trips back home are becoming fewer. Yet the memories of the place where I was born can never fade, because 'If anyone forgets their hometown, they will never grow into a true person.' We all grow older with time, which means that the images of our hometown gradually shrink, until one day, we may not remember clearly or even forget. But this can also be understood as us losing our childhood, losing ourselves.

(Author: Nguyễn Chí Nguyện)

I grew up in a poor village, surrounded by tall bamboo groves, vast rice fields, and friends who felt more like family.

I'll never forget those blazing afternoons spent chasing crabs with my friends. The fields were teeming with crabs back then. Each of us carried a basket, though some of us, unable to afford baskets, used large plastic bags instead. We would gently stir the grass along the field’s edge, and before long, we’d spot a few crabs lying on their backs, bubbling air from their shells. After just a few fields, our baskets would be overflowing. Once our baskets were full, we’d head to a pond in the middle of the fields to wash off. The brave ones would dive straight into the water, while the more timid ones would dip their feet into the water, causing splashes. Sometimes, in our excitement, one of us would pull someone else in, and the field would echo with our laughter and shouts.

The bamboo grove at the end of the lane was always a favorite hangout for us. All we had to do was spend a little time there, and we’d have enough materials to craft a whole array of toys. Thin bamboo stalks, no thicker than a finger, became perfect for playing “skip the stick,” while the tender bamboo leaves were woven into hoops for a game of “hoop toss.” Those with a bit more skill could pluck leaves and blow through them, creating music with the natural instruments.

During harvest time, we would leave school and follow our parents to the fields. Our village had a small river, and beside it lay a piece of land we called “bãi.” After the floods receded, algae would cover the fields, and everyone would head out to gather it. Families would bring their small plastic bags because as we gathered algae, we would often find crabs or shrimp hidden within. After collecting the algae, the adults would bend down to push the piles to the shore, and within days, the algae would dry, becoming easy to walk on without sinking.

The most fun came when the rice began to bloom. We would release the buffaloes on the dike and run to the rice fields to pick rice shoots. The cool, refreshing taste of those shoots was something I’ll always cherish. Of course, we were clever enough to avoid picking from our own family’s fields. There were times when we were caught by the field overseer, and we’d scatter, laughing as we tried to escape.

After the harvest, we had our time to roam. Grasshoppers and crickets were abundant. My father had made me a catcher out of an old flip-flop sole and wire, attached to a small bamboo stick. I would use it to catch the grasshoppers and crickets, and then drop them into a plastic bottle with a small hole for air. At night, we would burn old tires and use the glow to spot more grasshoppers hiding in the dry stalks. A gentle touch, and they would be in our hands, without the need to chase them like we did during the day. Occasionally, we would run into a snake, and we’d scatter, only to regroup and continue our hunt when the danger passed.

We also built little huts from banana leaves. We would drag the leaves to the base of a longan tree and use small bamboo and longan branches to create the frame. The roof was covered with banana leaves and tied together with straw. We’d crawl inside and stay there, even during the rain, not wanting to leave. The next day, the hut would have collapsed, and we’d start the process all over again.

Time passed quickly, and now my childhood friends have families of their own. Some are successful, others have struggled, some are happy, and some live in solitude. I wonder, in quiet moments, if any of them ever remembers our childhood, the countless memories we still refer to as “the land of memories.”

Hạnh Tồ

When I was young, I would wake up very early each day. The first thing I would do was run to the side door, which opened into a large courtyard. Our house was at the edge of the village, and back then, there were very few houses. From that courtyard, facing east, all I could see were endless fields and the distant horizon far away. Throughout my childhood, that far-off horizon was a place I longed to reach. I didn’t know what the distant blue or the early summer sunrise held, but I was sure of one thing—it had to be a beautiful and peaceful place.

Children, especially those from rural areas, are not fond of staying indoors. They crave freedom and vast spaces to run and play. A child’s imagination can fill an entire ocean in a tiny body. But as we grow older, all those beautiful dreams seem to lock away in a closed box, filled with caution and fear.

I spent most of my time in that courtyard. It was a rectangular space with clean red tiles, and in one corner, two old coconut trees stood, their heavy fruits hanging down. It was where my father and I would sit every year before Tet, making rice cakes while we waited for my mother to return from the market with sweets and new clothes for the family. It was where my friends and I would call each other to play hopscotch, jump rope, and marbles throughout the summer. It was where, in the autumn evenings, I would lie in a hammock, looking up at the birds flying south to escape the cold. I felt a deep loss in my heart and, with childish innocence, would ask my mother:

“Mom, when will the birds return to us?”

Time passed quickly. Seasons changed, and years followed one after another. I grew up, went to the city for university, and stayed there to work, returning home only occasionally. Life in the city was busy and chaotic, and often, I forgot about the little rectangular courtyard. In Saigon, few houses have courtyards; instead, there are narrow alleys where a stray beam of sunlight might fall. City children are consumed by homework, after-school lessons, and extracurriculars, with little time left to play.

My mother calls, reminding me of little things, telling me to eat properly, and mentioning that my father’s back pain had returned. She only says a few words, probably to keep me from worrying. But I know. As children grow up, what they give up are their parents’ youthful eyes, and their aging bodies.

I used to believe my future was as bright as the dreams I had staring toward the eastern horizon from that courtyard. But when I reached the future, I realized that the most beautiful place was never across the horizon—it was always right beneath my feet.

This afternoon, I will tidy up my work and sort through the tangled relationships and scattered pieces of life. Perhaps there is still a place waiting for me, just like before, in that familiar corner of the courtyard where I once waited eagerly for the birds to return from the far-off south.

Nguyễn Hồng Minh

Sometimes, when we slow down, we realize that whether life is happy or sad, full of success or failure, it all enriches our souls with the purest sounds, helping us live better in the days ahead...

The rain of late October is different from the autumn rains of distant years; it is heavy, relentless, and falls like a summer storm. Suddenly, I am reminded of the sweet scent of milk flowers carried by the breeze, floating through familiar corners of my hometown! It brings me back to a place deep within my heart, a place that feels both distant and close at the same time.

Back then, we were just poor rural students, spending our days in the shade of bamboo groves, surrounded by vast rice fields stretching far into the distance. There were no two-story houses in our village; everyone’s home had a large, peaceful yard, surrounded by the green of trees and vegetables. Life in the countryside was simple: mornings started at 4 or 5 a.m. with the sound of my mother sweeping the yard, the noisy clucking of hungry chickens greeting the dawn, and neighbors calling each other to go to the fields… These sounds formed the heartwarming picture of rural Vietnam.

Back then, a few families would pool their money to buy a black-and-white TV. Every time the World Cup came, everyone in the village would gather at the square to watch the match, cheering and chatting excitedly. I remember how my grandmother, my mother, and my aunt used to make huge trays of bánh đúc (rice cakes), sharing them with all the families, each piece soft, chewy, and dipped in salty soy sauce. It became a cherished memory of my childhood, a taste of home.

For Tet, my father and uncles would prepare the ingredients by hand, pounding the sticky rice with stone pestles to make bánh chưng and bánh dày. Sweat trickled down their faces, their brows furrowed from the hard work of carrying the weight of family responsibilities. Despite the fatigue, laughter echoed around us as we worked together, filling the air with a sense of camaraderie and warmth that I long to relive, to feel at peace again in the simplicity and sweetness of those humble, rural days.

Each time I accompanied my mother to Yên Cát, my maternal hometown, and passed by the small grocery shops in the town, my eyes would light up at the sight of colorful polka-dotted umbrellas, shiny school backpacks, and occasionally, expensive dolls that I could only dream of owning. We filled the void with traditional games, and our laughter echoed in the golden light of early autumn.

I recall how we would wade through the muddy fields, searching for pieces of clay to build our little toys. Our faces were smeared with mud, but our eyes shone brightly as we crafted clay beds, houses, and families. We would then use banana leaves to make little squares and play pretend, losing track of time until our parents called us home with a stick in hand.

Out there, the rain continues to fall, and the sky darkens as if lulling me deeper into the memories of my childhood. Who still remembers those first school days, the friends we met, who became close companions as we shared our struggles and joys through those difficult but sweet years? Today’s world has changed, pulling us away from these memories, but sometimes, when we slow down, we realize that life’s ups and downs enrich our souls, helping us live more fully in the days ahead.

Deep within the soul of every person, there is a place to return to, especially when life feels uncertain amidst the rush of everyday events. People turn to rivers, docks, and boats, but for me, I find solace in the pond behind our house – a place that holds both the serene and tumultuous memories of my childhood. I don’t know when the pond first appeared, but I’ve always known it ever since my father bought the land and built our house there. He said that the pond used to be a village well, where people would come to fetch water. Over the years, the well slowly turned into a pond.

My siblings, my friends, and I will never forget those hot summer afternoons when we would jump into the pond to cool off. In the countryside, children lived simply, wearing just shorts and diving straight into the water. Every afternoon, we didn’t care for naps, only waiting for our parents to sleep so we could play games like hide-and-seek, marbles, jumping rope, or swimming. The pond became our meeting spot, a source of joy for the children in the neighborhood. Not only did we swim and play, but we also caught crabs and snails. After gathering a good catch, we’d boil them and eat them with ginger fish sauce and a little chili, savoring the taste while chatting. It was perfect.

The pond wasn’t just a playground for the kids; it also provided water for the families in the area during the dry season. In the past, whenever drought season came, I would see the neighbors carrying buckets to fetch water. Near the pond was a well with clear, cool water. After working in the fields, I would dip my bucket into the well and drink deeply, feeling refreshed before washing up. The cold water soaked into every pore, cooling me down from the inside out. Despite the well being near the pond, the water in the well was always clean. That’s why, when the pond was full, the well was also full. Neighbors would come to our house for drinking water from the well and pond water for their gardens. Our home always seemed to have visitors asking for water, but that was in the past. Nowadays, every household has its own water tank, so there’s less need to ask around.

The pond was also our family’s livelihood. My father stocked it with all kinds of fish to raise. I’ve never seen anyone work as diligently as my father. Morning, noon, and evening – at any time, he would be out cutting grass or looking for food to feed the fish. Grass carp, carp, tilapia, catfish – all of them grew big and fat. Each year, our family would harvest several hundred kilograms of fish. But six years ago, something happened. For some unknown reason, the fish suddenly died in large numbers, floating on the surface of the water. My father had to pull them out and bury them, feeling regretful and heartbroken. After caring for them all year, it all went to waste. Seeing my father’s weary, weathered face and his calloused hands, I couldn’t help but feel immense pity. After that, my father decided to drain the pond and change the way he farmed. Instead of raising food fish, he switched to breeding fish for sale, which required less time but brought in more profit. Thanks to the pond, my siblings and I were able to grow up and get an education.

Our house seemed to stand on the boundary between two worlds: the bustling town and the peaceful countryside. In front of our house was the busy market, with cars and people everywhere. But behind our house, with the pond and garden, was a completely different world: serene and quiet. Behind the pond, to the left, was a small clinic; to the right, vast rice fields stretched far away. When I was little, the clinic was still in operation. Later, the government moved the clinic to a new location, closer to the town. The land where the clinic stood was sold, and now houses have been built on it. I still remember the stories about the old clinic, where a woman had been cursed and gone mad. People used to say she was once very beautiful, and a man from an ethnic group fell in love with her, but she didn’t return his feelings, so he cursed her. She wandered aimlessly, and every evening she would return to the abandoned house at the clinic, cooking rice in a tiny pot over a small fire. Whether the curse was real or not, I don’t know, but the image of the woman in ragged black clothes, sitting beside the flickering fire day after day, haunted me. We children used to tease her, calling her ‘the madwoman.’ I even joined in with my friends. Now, when I think back, I realize how miserable her life must have been. A life so full of bitterness! She passed away a long time ago, and I don’t remember when, but her face and figure are still vividly etched in my mind.

To the right of the pond was the vast rice field. The field was split by a road – a railway that ran from Giát to Nghĩa Đàn, used for transporting passengers and goods. But that was in the past. Now, the railway no longer operates. No trains pass by anymore, but the road still remains the same. My childhood memories are tied to that railway. When I was little, after school, I would take the buffalo to the rice field and walk along the train tracks, letting it graze on the grass growing on either side. During the scorching summer heat, the grass would die, leaving only a few bushes behind. I would lead the buffalo around, searching for something for it to eat. When I couldn’t find anything, the buffalo would get frustrated and butt me with its head. It was an ungrateful animal! I was so small then, and it was so big and strong. It bullied me, and I was so angry. But when my parents decided to sell it, I cried like crazy. I was scared it would be slaughtered, and I felt so sorry for it.

Connected to the railway was the story of the railway guard. Back then, the train passed by the rice fields behind our pond, and every major crossing had a small house for the guard. Their job was to pull down the barriers when the train was approaching, making sure pedestrians stopped until the train passed. At the end of our rice field, near the pond, lived a guard and his mother in a small house. About seventeen years ago, there was a horrific murder that shook the village. On a cold winter night, the woman guard was brutally murdered by someone. She died a painful, unjust death. Every time I think about it, I still feel a chill run down my spine.

Life goes on, and after many ups and downs, whenever I return home, the image of the pond and those childhood memories flood back. There are both happy and sad stories that have haunted me throughout my youth. Whether to keep or discard these memories is up to each person, but for me, the memories tied to the simple images of my hometown are an irreplaceable part of my life’s journey.

Bảo Ngọc

One hand, my mother carried my younger brother Phong, while the other hand guided me across the small ditch in front of the house as we took a shortcut through the fields to the kindergarten. I lost my balance and fell into the muddy puddle. My mother quickly pulled me up, placed Phong on the edge of the bank, and then waded back into the ditch to search for my sandals. Along the way to drop Phong off at school, my mother scolded me: “You can’t even walk properly. You break your sandals and now you’re dirty. How will you go to school tomorrow?” She was more concerned about the sandals than the mud all over me. But back then, falling down was nothing new for kids in the countryside like me. If we hurt ourselves, we would cry for a moment, then pick ourselves up and go back to playing as if nothing had happened. As for the sandals, they were a precious item—my mother had to sell a basket of sweet potatoes just to buy them. And with the market so far away, it took her nearly a day to get there, and only once every ten days. So, losing those sandals was truly a big deal to her.

When Phong reached preschool age, my younger sister Hải was born. By then, I had started second grade. My mother provided me with a school bag made of canvas, a few notebooks, a new set of clothes, and a pair of Tiền Phong sandals. The sandals, which had been damaged when I fell while taking Phong to kindergarten, were repaired by my father with numerous patches. As I grew, I outgrew them, and they were passed down to Phong. In a way, Phong was always the one who got the short end of the stick. My clothes were too tight, curling up like springs, and I handed them down to him. The same went for the books, which Phong had to reuse from me. But he never once asked for new clothes or things. Back then, it was perfectly normal in the countryside for younger siblings to wear the hand-me-downs of their older brothers and sisters. Our family wasn’t the only one doing this.

After Hải was born, life became more difficult for me. During the summer holidays, my mother would travel with some of the women from the village to sell goods far away. My father, too, would rarely come home due to his work schedule. So, my siblings and I had to take care of everything on our own. In the mornings, I would take the boiled sweet potatoes my mother had left on the crib, pour some sugar syrup into a bowl, and wake Phong up to eat before he went to school. After Phong ate, he would slowly carry the hammock to the kindergarten. I would then heat up some porridge that my mother had cooked and feed it to Hải while she napped in the hammock. When Hải was sleeping, I would quickly go out to pick some amaranth for pig food, sweep the house, and get things ready.

One evening, as I was preparing dinner, Phong ran in, crying and calling me: “Brother! They beat me.” I rushed out to ask: “Who did it?” Phong pointed towards the house of Trọng Diệc. So, we rushed over to his house and called him out. The two sides fought fiercely until Trọng Diệc finally cried out in defeat. Just as his mother came out holding a bamboo stick, Phong and I turned and bolted back home. By then, the rice on the stove had burned, and Hải was crying in the hammock. I was so scared, I grabbed Hải into my arms, and the three of us sat at the door, waiting for our mother to come back.

As the evening wore on, Hải cried louder from hunger. Phong’s forehead was swollen from the fight, and I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing either. We all cried together.

Mother had just returned, unloading her cart from the market, and immediately took Hải into her arms to nurse. After feeding Hải, she made us lie on the wooden bed while she took the bamboo stick that my father had prepared and beat us both. Phong had expected the punishment after his fight with Trọng Diệc, while I knew I would be punished for burning the rice and for letting Hải go hungry. So, we both silently endured. Our tears soaked the wooden bed as we cried. Only when Phong could no longer handle the pain and cried out did mother stop. That night, mother stayed up all night to watch over Hải, and she didn’t forget to rub ointment on both Phong and me. I remember her singing a lullaby to Hải: “Siblings are like hands and feet…”

There’s no way to fully capture the memories of my childhood with my mother on paper. Among all the countless moments I shared with her, I remember most the time I broke my sandals crossing the ditch and the afternoon I was punished. Now, my mother’s hair has turned gray, her skin wrinkled, and her face bears the marks of time. I only wish for her to stay healthy, so that my siblings and I can always lean on her as we grow and face the challenges ahead.

Đặng Thiên Sơn

I don't quite understand why, but every time the cool autumn wind blows in, I find myself thinking about spring. Yet, at my age, I can truly feel that I'm living in the most beautiful season of Earth's yearly orbit around the sun. It's the season of the year, the season of the soul – Autumn.

Is it the autumn breeze that makes me reflect on my life journey? For everyone, that journey is different in length, but strangely, I feel like mine has been long. I often think about what has passed, less so about what’s ahead. The remaining part of my journey feels like it’s already known, and there’s nothing much to say about it.

Then, that season of dreams, thoughts, and reflection passes, taking with it the last scattered yellow leaves. Cold winds from the North occasionally sweep through, and the space around us feels either wider or more confined. Winter comes, bringing with it a quiet, deep longing. A longing that can be light or heavy, but always profoundly sorrowful. Is this sorrow reflected in the bare branches of the mulberry trees, or in the solitary birds flying across a gray sky, headed for an unknown distant place? Does it come when the cold wind howls through the cracks in the window, accompanied by the faint, dry sound of a nighttime vendor calling out, their voice carrying a desolate chill? This inorganic sorrow creeps into the soul in ways I can hardly explain... There’s a deep sense of loss, like losing something vague but vast.

I have an old friend living with his twelve-year-old granddaughter. One is in the spring of life, the other in the winter. They don’t speak much. The girl, though so young, seems older than her years, caring for her grandfather and the household with the tenderness of someone much older. After school, she likes to sit with him, listening to his stories of times gone by, of a father she can’t picture, and a mother who had to part with her, leaving her in the care of her grandfather. As for him, aside from feeding her three times a day, when she’s not around, he’s mostly silent. I’ve noticed this every time I visit him. Life hasn’t been kind to him. His wife passed away early, his only son, hoping to get rich, left for faraway lands, and his daughter-in-law remarried. The life he has left is all about caring for this poor granddaughter.

“She doesn’t have the carefree childhood we did,” he said to me, as if he were blaming himself. His words were unfinished, and they hung in the air, thick with loneliness. This wasn’t the first time I’d heard him say it. Every time, I feel I understand him more, and I sympathize with his quiet sorrow. The best thing we can do in such moments is to sit quietly, letting time ease the tension, so that perhaps, the sorrow can drift away, along with the memories. That way, the sadness I feel from him won’t remain with me for long.

“Grandpa...” The girl’s voice calls from the gate. She doesn’t want him to feel sad anymore. Every day after school, she rushes home to him, knowing that her presence brightens his mood. She bursts in like a ray of sunshine, warming his lonely soul. “Hello, Uncle,” she says as she spots me. “Grandpa has a guest, let me cook for him.” I can’t help but smile at how sweet and innocent she is, like a little bird. People often compare childhood to this. “I missed you so much, Grandpa,” she pouts, holding onto his sleeve. “Let me cook for you!” She’s a precious, pure soul, and for a moment, I wonder: how would my old friend live without her?

My childhood memories are always filled with the warm, loving words of my mother... and another kind of childhood when I listened to fairy tales. I would imagine: the birds singing at dawn, pure and clear; the sound of a stream trickling through the summer heat; the whispers by the fire on cold winter nights, listening to stories from my grandmother, dozing off. I didn’t have those moments, but I read them in books and imagined they must have been a part of my childhood too. Because I believe that is the true beauty of childhood.

I had a peaceful childhood, always in my mother’s embrace, and I never got the chance to thank her for all the sweetness and tenderness she gave me. She always knew my likes and would indulge me without asking for anything in return. According to many, my childhood was far too fortunate compared to the girl’s.

Being with the girl and her grandfather, I realized how selfish I had been in the past with my own mother. She passed away when I had become strong in life. I thought everything I had was a given – didn’t every parent do that for their children? I never truly understood the hardships my parents endured. I didn’t even bother to learn about their “old days,” just hearing snippets of their struggles. My parents had prepared a stable life for me, never once complaining.

But still, I feel something was missing from my childhood. When I was young, I’d ask my mother why we didn’t have a hometown. I noticed my classmates often talked about their hometowns and grandparents. I once saw my mother pause, lost in thought, at the mention of our “homeland.”

Then came the first day of school, when the blazing summer heat faded away, and the clear skies filled with wind and dreams. We, once strangers, began focusing on our studies, preparing to become useful individuals. Every summer, my friends would share stories about their hometowns – herding cattle, jumping over bridges, swimming in rivers... I’d just sit and listen, feeling left out. They seemed so lively, while I was slow, with nothing much to say. Could I even talk about going to the mountains or the sea? It felt so out of place. I felt distanced from them. They were different from me, and I could vaguely sense that. At that moment, I found myself resenting my parents. I thought, “What if they had done things differently?”

For us, summer was always too short. After giving us a week or so to rest, my parents would begin the summer lessons, preparing us with “extra classes” to strengthen our knowledge for the future.

As I grew older, I managed to visit the countryside a few times, if we weren’t too busy with school. These visits usually happened during the holidays, when we’d take the elderly to the fields. Some of these elders were distant relatives, and I’d call them “grandparents,” though I couldn’t really recall their faces. I’d also occasionally visit weddings. But I never enjoyed the noisy weddings, funerals, or memorial services in the village. I didn’t know most of the people there. My mother would take us around to greet them and say, “You city kids don’t understand the struggles of the countryside. You should come back often to meet your relatives and neighbors.” But more importantly, she wanted us to never forget our roots. Perhaps she had sensed this need in us when I once asked, “Why don’t we have a hometown?” But I didn’t understand it back then.

People often associate rivers with the idea of a hometown. When I was a child, I’d occasionally bathe in the river near my village, though the taste of that river water is faint in my memory. My mother was always afraid. But I knew much about the fields of my homeland. Whenever I traveled, I’d think about the fields back home, with names that sounded so familiar: the North field, the South field. In reality, I didn’t remember much about these places, but I imagined them filled with wild grass, with bushes of flowers, and lone trees. Children would let the cattle roam freely while they sat together or lay on the grass, chatting about everything. I thought that’s what the countryside was like. But my mother would remind me, our land had vast, flat fields. The real countryside, she said, was in the hills. Yet, to me, the countryside was always like this – the beauty I read about in books.

Over time, I realized that the details of the countryside I imagined were from books, not my real experiences. I didn’t grow up with the village children, herding cattle or picking grass. I didn’t have those afternoons lying on the grass watching the sky, or playing by the river in the summer. But despite this, the essence of the countryside grew stronger in my heart, and the feeling of belonging to it deepened.

The little girl, my friend’s granddaughter, has a childhood very different from mine and my childhood friends. I, as a child, was pampered and protected. But now, at the age of forty, I see something in her that’s both admirable and unsettling. She’s only twelve! I fear that if I were in her shoes, I wouldn’t know how to handle life. I’m amazed by her strength and resilience, something even my own children lack. She’s pure, innocent, and yet, she’s the rock her grandfather leans on, his source of hope and life. I wonder if she truly understands just how important she is to him. She is both strong and fragile, and I admire her for it.

One weekend, I invited my old friend to go to the outskirts of town with me. Every time I go there, my heart expands with the open landscape, the greens, and even the laborious lives of the people working under the sun. The smell of hay, the scent of fertilizer from the fields, the sight of the evening sun casting a golden hue over the land... The countryside, in all its quiet, unspoken beauty. I shared these thoughts with my friend. He listened in silence, lost in his own thoughts.

He looked out at his granddaughter, who was wandering alone, picking wildflowers by the dike. A girl’s tenderness and innocence. Everything about her was gentle, quiet, and lovable. Watching her, my friend smiled softly, tears glistening in his eyes. Perhaps he was thinking of his own childhood, or of his granddaughter’s future. I stayed silent as time passed, letting the moment stretch out. I too was lost in memories of my own childhood – peaceful, with my mother always caring for us.

That summer, my old friend came to stay at my house, asking me to look after his home while he took his granddaughter back to their hometown. “She needs to know her roots better than her parents. She’s too innocent, too pure... the love for one’s homeland must be nurtured from a young age. If I had understood this earlier, maybe I wouldn’t have lost my own child...,” he said.

Vinh Anh

On a late summer afternoon in Hanoi, as I strolled along Xuan Thuỷ Street in Cau Giay, I encountered women selling their humble wares, calling out to passersby in soft, melodic voices that seemed to pull at the heartstrings. One such treat, the beloved Com Vong, drew me in, evoking the nostalgia of Hanoi’s old-world charm. Amidst the bustling city streets, these vendors offered a glimpse of poetry in the form of green, fragrant rice cakes. The aroma was enough to remind me of a time long past, filling my heart with a longing for simpler, sweeter days. Hanoi, in my small heart, suddenly felt alive with a delicate, poignant pulse.

In the distant past, I would accompany my grandfather to the market. Autumn was a magical season, with the cool, crisp breeze and the golden chrysanthemums that bloomed in their full, gentle splendor. Autumn was perfect not only for its beauty but for the delicate scent in the air. The sweet sound of street vendors' calls would lead me to a stall where I would carefully observe the women choosing fragrant, green, square bundles of Com, wrapped in the soft, green leaves of rice stalks, freshly harvested and free of their grains. It was an autumn to remember, filled with simplicity and beauty.

As I held the bundle of 'heaven’s gift' in my hands, the soft, fragrant green rice felt delicate, sweet, and smooth to the touch. Wrapped in layers of lotus leaves, which preserved its freshness and moisture, I was warned by my grandfather to be careful, as the leaves of the water lily could cause irritation. The rice cakes, so thin and translucent, resembled precious jewels, pure and inviting. I breathed deeply, savoring the essence of the earth and the sky, and the sweet scent that was imbued with the craftsmanship of the Com Vong artisans.

Com Vong is made from a specific variety of glutinous rice, neither too old nor too young, to ensure the perfect texture. If the rice is too mature, the Com will be hard and break easily; if it’s too young, the rice grains will burst when pounded, causing them to stick together. After the rice is harvested, it’s hand-processed—threshed, roasted, and pounded to create the delicate Com. It requires skill and precision to avoid the sticky residue that can form when the rice is improperly handled.

When I placed a small pinch of Com in my mouth, I could instantly taste its sweetness, its soft, chewy texture, and the freshness that seemed to float on my tongue. It felt like the scent of glutinous rice mingled with the subtle fragrance of lotus flowers from the vast West Lake, lingering on my fingertips long after the last bite.

As a child with a sweet tooth, I devoured one package of Com and immediately asked for more—one after another. I loved the taste of Com, so much so that when ripe persimmons or golden bananas were in season, my grandfather would suggest I dip them in Com. The combination of the Com’s sweet fragrance and the freshness of the fruit created a delightful treat that I could never resist. The essence of autumn in Hanoi lingered in every bite, leaving a distinct, subtle flavor that was uniquely Hanoi.

Grandfather, a true connoisseur, would explain that different harvests of rice yielded different types of Com. Only the discerning could tell the difference: the best Com is from the me leaf variety, followed by Com rót, then Com mộc, and lastly, the regular Com. Aside from fresh Com, Hanoi’s Vong village also produces a variety of other delicacies, including dried Com, Com sticky rice, Com stir-fried with sugar, Com pudding, and Com cakes—each offering a unique taste experience.

The enjoyment of Com Vong had become a refined pleasure, passed down through generations of Hanoi’s intellectuals, like my grandfather, and now, it had been shared with me. Com Vong had found its place in poetry, with lines like “Com Vong, rice from Mễ Trì/ Tương Bần, Láng herbs, what could be more delicious?” This humble treat had become a symbol of Hanoi’s charm, a simple yet elegant gift that would forever remain in the hearts of those who tasted its distinctive flavor.

There was no greater joy than walking the streets of Hanoi in autumn, savoring the unique flavor of Com Vong while still holding onto the scent of the countryside. In the middle of the bustling city, the familiar warmth of childhood memories would flood back, evoking a deep sense of nostalgia. The memories of the past rushed to the surface, weaving a tapestry of longing, making the autumn even more magical.

I suddenly remembered my childhood, when my grandfather would take me by the hand to the village of Vong during the harvest season. The autumn breeze would carry the fragrance of Com throughout the village, blending with the lively sound of pounding rice. The artisans, warm and welcoming, would offer us a plate of soft, chewy Com cakes, fragrant with the aroma of mung beans and pandan leaves. The experience, paired with a steaming pot of fragrant Thai tea, felt like heaven itself.

When I returned to Hanoi one autumn day, I found myself yearning for the flavor of my childhood, still captivated by the lasting fragrance of Com Vong. The village of Vong had changed drastically, transformed into an urban landscape I hardly recognized. The fields that once grew rice were now part of the expanding city. The traditional methods of hand-pounding Com had been replaced by machines, and the artisans lamented the loss of their craft. Yet, I held onto the memories, offering the simple yet sophisticated treat to my grandfather’s spirit, placing it as a tribute on his altar, and sharing it with the next generation.

On this cool autumn day, as I walked through the long, narrow streets, with the scent of milk flowers filling the air, and holding a bundle of Com Vong, I felt a profound sense of peace. As I slowly unwrapped the leaves, the gentle aroma of lotus reached me, and I felt the joy of experiencing that childhood memory once more. There could be no greater happiness than reliving the warmth and simplicity of those autumn days spent with my grandfather, enjoying the taste of Com Vong together.

NGUYỄN MINH

One August afternoon, the golden autumn sun shimmered like honey, casting a soft glow over my memories. I stood, torn between the stormy present and the quiet pull of childhood, as if the past was just within reach, yet slipping further away with every passing moment. It felt as if my childhood was no longer here, yet at the same time, it was as vivid as ever, alive in the briefest moments and fragments, like mist drifting through the air.

But even that feeling couldn’t quite lead me to what I sought. It was only when the train of memory began to tug at my soul, relentlessly stirring the forgotten, that the pieces of my childhood reappeared—fragments, broken yet somehow whole. Not everyone can hold onto their childhood, and once it's lost, it's impossible to fully retrieve. All that remains are bits and pieces, patched together like a quilt of time. Looking at the children today, so immersed in their books, social media trends, and fashion, I realize they don’t yearn for the simple, innocent days of childhood as I once did. And neither do I. Yet, as a young adult, I find myself searching, wanting to shed tears for a childhood long gone.

On a twilight evening, sitting in reflection, I cry for the memories of childhood, feeling as if I am moss clinging to an old, weathered wall. The more I peel away the layers, the more the memories resurface, like a secret ticket that sends me back in time. I recall the children during the Mid-Autumn Festival, how they all seemed so alike, venturing out into the moonlit streets to join the throngs of people. They captured photos, watched the lion dances, and blended into the festive chaos. I watched them, struck by a sudden sense of pride and pity for them, as I thought about how different their childhoods were from mine. But then I stopped myself—must childhood always look like mine to be called 'childhood'? I grew up in simpler, quieter times, but they are living in a world of brightness and energy. Their childhood, though vastly different, is just as rich, just as full of life, shaped by the currents of modernity.

Through the filter of time, past the haze of nostalgia, I see my son sitting with his book, “Please Give Me a Ticket to Childhood” by Nguyễn Nhật Ánh. My own childhood feels distant, and I read that book so long ago, yet now I find myself drawn into it again. It’s as if I’m there, living those moments once more. And then, with a laugh, I open YouTube and listen to the song “Donna Donna,” a melody I first heard on the TV show “Learning English Through Songs and Games” on VTV2. The memories flood back—how I cried when I left my mother, my heart aching to return to the warm, familiar house, where she cooked in the kitchen while my father played chess with Uncle Chín under the shade of the mango tree. At that moment, I felt free, like a young calf soaring through the skies, carefree and wild.

The streets are still drenched in rain, and I wonder if I’ll ever see, hear, or feel the longing for my childhood again. The fragments of memory continue to swirl in my mind, and sometimes, they haunt me in my dreams. I remember sitting on the doorstep, watching the rain pour, with my mother’s voice ringing in my ears: “When you choose to turn away from sorrow, it will never stay with you.” Those soothing words she couldn’t whisper to me for the rest of my life—words to remind me to balance, adapt, and fill the silence with peace. Then, in those moments of turmoil, the storm will pass, as the winds carry it away.

As autumn's first chill creeps in through the window, I sit by the cold glass, listening to the rain, the memories coming in fragmented waves, enough to bring tears to my eyes. So, I let myself cry, embracing my emotions with each breath, knowing that it’s okay to let the warmth of those memories carry me through the coldness of life. Childhood memories may be fleeting, but sometimes, it’s important to cry for them while we still can. Just like me, crying for the childhood I once had, hoping that those moments might drift back in the wind, just as they came.

NGUYỄN THỊ DIỄM