Top 10 Best Essays on December

December has arrived at the window, gently brushing past every corner, sending a chill through the heart during the winter season. For each person, December carries its own special meaning, sometimes bringing joy, other times stirring nostalgia, and occasionally filling us with longing. As time rolls forward, December marks the end of the year, a time for the young to celebrate another year of life, but it also causes some melancholy in the elderly, as life seems to be slipping away faster. That's why someone once wrote this reflective line: Who can hold back the steps of time?/Between regret and endless sobbing/December wavers in sadness/With memories, smoke turns into love poetry...

December is a time when the old year meets the new, and this transition brings many remarkable things. It carries a biting cold that numbs the fingers, making people huddle closer when walking in the streets, yet this very cold encourages us to seek warmth in our homes, among loved ones, and from familiar daily comforts. And then, there are golden rays of sunshine, like drops of honey falling on the doorstep. After a long time avoiding the cold, now everyone wants to dress beautifully, step out onto the street, sip coffee, and watch the street slowly unfold with leaves fluttering, illuminated by the pale sunshine of winter.

People often say that December and winter are lonely and cold, but in my view, that's not entirely true. Amidst the gray hues, the warmth of the sun in winter can light up the day. In the midst of coldness, there is still romance. Somewhere in the corner of the street, grilled corn and sweet potatoes crackle on the coals, and people sit closer together, savoring the plump, fragrant corn kernels. That is the moment when memories gently flood back, sometimes bringing joy, yet also a touch of quiet reflection. As Huỳnh Minh Nhật once expressed in his poem “Wind of December”: 'Suddenly one morning, mist fills the gate/Wind stirs up the quiet melancholy/December chills passing through the street/I am startled and silently think: “December!...Winter blooms softly like a wildflower/Saying goodbye to autumn, the road turns white/The old sun fades, like a fleeting love'.

It's not January, February, or March, but December—the last month of the year, when the New Year is so near. Everyone longs to return home, where a devoted mother and loved ones await to gather and share love. A strange sense of nostalgia stirs within.

Also in December, chrysanthemums begin to fade, but it's also the season when mustard flowers bloom 'golden by the riverbank, you're in your youth, waiting for me, though still unmarried. There’s a season when mustard flowers glow in the golden sun'... Walking along the riverbank, against the wind, bathed in the warmth of the winter sun, surrounded by the golden mustard blooms and the fragrance of tiny flowers in clusters, all blending together as the poems from the young girl resonate in the air. If this scene were to be painted, composed into music, or captured in poetry and literature, I am sure it would make a beautiful highlight.

“December has arrived at the riverbank”

“The cold wind gently sways the mustard flowers”

“Twilight paints the shore with purple hues”

“Do you still remember the girl of old?”

(Welcome December - Nguyễn Đình Huân).

December is a time to snuggle up in warm blankets, yet it’s also the time when people bustle about finishing their tasks, eagerly preparing for the New Year with new hopes and ambitions for success.

Someone once said, not only December but also Hanoi in December is as beautiful as a poetic maiden: Sometimes simple, shy, wanting to retreat into a small corner, but at other times, bursting with vitality, expanding into the vast space. December visits us not just once, but each time it touches a moment, we feel that fluttering emotion. December—the old year is about to leave, and the calendar keeps ticking down. Will anyone pause to reflect on the path we've traveled? Maybe with some regrets, but we will be happy and more mature...

Trần Hiền

The cold winds of December sweep in, and my father still follows the routine of waking up early to start the fire. He gathers the dry wood from the garden and chops it into small pieces, stacking them neatly by the stove so that there is always enough wood for cooking through the winter. Father stokes the fire, and mother begins cooking breakfast for the whole family. The crackling of the fire fills the air, and the smell of rice mingles with the scent of smoke and the chilly morning mist, pulling me back to those cherished memories.

In December, the village begins preparing for the Tết harvest. This harvest is the most crucial of the year, determining whether the Tết celebrations will be plentiful or not. As early as dawn, despite the gusting winter winds, the villagers are already in the fields, working tirelessly with their hoes and baskets. They plant, water, fertilize, and sow seeds... Yet, even with years of experience, success or failure depends entirely on the weather. Some years, when the sun is too hot, the vegetables grow too quickly, and before Tết arrives, they must be sold off at a loss. Other years, the cold is so harsh that nothing grows, and even though the vegetables are priced high, there are none to sell. As such, my parents are always busy and filled with worry throughout this month.

Children eagerly await December, counting down the days to the New Year. Their anticipation is pure and filled with innocence. During those days, we would herd the buffalo and cows in distant fields. The cold was harsh, yet we only wore thin shirts, saving our best clothes for school or Tết. The farm clothes couldn't be worn while tending the animals—they would get dirty, and there wouldn't be enough time to wash and dry them. During these cold mornings, we would wander the fields looking for dry twigs, and gathering straw to build small fires to warm ourselves. Sometimes, we even dared to sneak into other people's fields to steal a few ears of corn or dig up a few sweet potatoes to roast right there in the field.

Roasted sweet potatoes and corn were the fragrant, warming treats of our childhood. We shared every bite, sitting by the fire, laughing and chatting. The crackling sound of the fire was peaceful and filled with nostalgia. It was during these moments that dreams of escaping the farm life took shape in our minds—we dreamed of a life away from the hardships and cold. Ah, how those simple, heartfelt thoughts bring tears to my eyes now as I remember.

In December, there were nights when the cold wind made it impossible to sleep. My father, in his wisdom, would craft soft mattresses from golden straw. These straw mattresses were like lifesavers during the freezing winter months. Every time I recall them, I feel a lump in my throat as I remember how my father's rough hands carefully wove them together.

Then, December would return, just as it always did. I was one of the few lucky ones who achieved my childhood dream. Leaving behind the muddy fields and the biting winter winds, I moved to the city to study and work. Despite having lived in the city for many years, my heart never forgets my homeland, where I spent my childhood, enduring hardships with my parents, neighbors, and close friends. I long to return to that simpler time—my youth was filled with poverty, yet also free of worry. I long to be like a small bird, perched on a eucalyptus branch each morning, singing melodiously. I wish I could sleep forever, enveloped by the winter air, the scent of the fields, and the memory of roasted corn and sweet potatoes from my childhood.

Mai Hoàng

December, how quickly it arrives! You sigh with that familiar, heartaching refrain.

You tell me that as the year draws to a close, the longing for home grows stronger, and the winds howl outside, but you cannot stop the hot tears that fall. I am at a loss for words at your emotions. Thinking about it, since last Tết, I have not once returned to visit my hometown. You’ve made me remember so much, and now I feel guilty about neglecting my roots. The city has numbed my feelings without me even realizing it, or perhaps it’s because I’ve been struggling to keep up with city life that I’ve become this way.

There were times when I, too, longed desperately for home, especially during the cold gusts of wind that blew across my small rented room. The sounds of the city—honking cars, construction noise, and the stray cats roaming the rooftops—disrupted the stillness. I felt lonely, yearning for the warmth of my home. I missed waking up to the smell of firewood crackling in the morning, with family gathered around the stove, warmth filling the air.

In December, the weather in my hometown was always freezing. Every morning, my mother would prepare a basin of hot water in the corner of the house, calling out to Tâm, Hải, and Lan to wash their faces. How tender her voice sounded! Those mornings passed quickly and now they live only in my memory.

December, in my childhood, was a time painted with vibrant colors. It was the time of golden mustard fields by the river, the green cornfields where the breeze carried the sweet fragrance of flowers. Even the empty fields after harvest, with the gray stubble, held a special place in my heart. My friends and I would stretch our arms wide to embrace the fields and the chilly winds. Holding hands tightly, we would run barefoot, just to warm up our bodies. Our laughter echoed, blending with the crackling of firewood during our hurried moments of picking corn and sweet potatoes. The simplicity of those colors, those moments, still linger in my mind after all these years.

I recall those wet December days, when the cold was biting. When my grandfather was alive, to keep us warm during the cold, he would meticulously arrange straw to create soft bedding for us. The straw mattresses were the warmest and most comforting I have ever slept on. They embraced me through my dreams, allowing me to hold on to that warmth, even though, to this day, I have yet to achieve success, I remain content thanks to the hardships that shaped me. How I regret that my grandfather passed away when I was still a young boy, too immature to make him proud. December in the countryside was peaceful, so peaceful that it felt unreal. No car horns, no construction noise. Occasionally, you would hear the dogs barking playfully, or a rooster crowing at noon. The mothers and grandmothers spoke softly as they walked down the street, sharing their thoughts. I miss the hurried footsteps of my parents, always on the move, working hard for us.

I miss the mud-stained paths and the struggle of plowing fields. Year after year, they labored tirelessly, nurturing their love and peace for their children’s education, carrying their burdens in every word and every breath…

Each December passed, but only the Decembers of my childhood stayed behind. I realized that I had missed out on many memories, being indifferent to my homeland. December is filled with longing, and yet I am the one who often forgets. December plays its melancholic tune, reminding me not to neglect my roots and not to forget. I seek forgiveness from the Decembers of old!

Essay by CAO VĂN QUYỀN

As the train of time reaches its final station, people become increasingly hurried. Amidst the chaos of emotions, the heart feels like a boat, drifting between remembering and forgetting. December cannot simply pass quietly. Some memories have faded, while others are like deep scars that the years cannot erase.

December walks through the cold season, the roadside banyan trees shedding their withered leaves, leaving only skeletal branches, enduring the biting cold. Yet, December also brings forth the brilliant yellow of mustard flowers, the passionate red of poinsettias, and the vibrant green of cabbage fields.

In December, it marks a year since she left this world. He walks alone, and the children are bewildered by the absence of a mother's love. Is there any greater sorrow? The children's eyes often gaze into the distance, as if trying to grasp the fleeting happiness of the past, a dream that will never return. Watching them speak to their mother's portrait fills my heart with sorrow, and I know this winter and many winters to come will be so cold for them. Fate is cruel, forcing the children to face hardship, but when they overcome it, they will be stronger, like the banyan tree in winter, almost devoid of life, but when spring arrives, new life pulses in its branches.

In December, I am startled to see how time has carried away my youth, leaving only the dust of time to obscure the path back. The one who held my hand and promised to walk with me through life, no matter how difficult or poor, kept that vow firmly. But one day, they let go at the crossroads of wealth, leaving me stranded in solitude. The vow of forever faded like water flowing away. It's not life’s fault, for it tempts and sways the heart, but my own fate, fragile and fleeting. In December, sometimes the shimmering memories return: the gentle gaze, the tender smile, and the hand that never let go during the cold winter days… Even though I know I am alone, my heart reminds me not to hold on when love has already been determined by fate. Perhaps tomorrow holds another chance, and if we continue today, we will meet again, for some fates in life are beyond explanation.

December brings me back to simple, familiar things. It is the homeland, the deep bond of love that resides in every heart: the childhood running barefoot along the dike, with muddy faces and laughter ringing in the afternoon sun; the innocent friendship of schoolchildren with dreams left unfulfilled; the old school where the teacher’s voice still echoes; the figure of my father and mother, tirelessly working day and night, enduring hardships with the faith that carried them through… In December, I lean on the peace of the past to find a moment of refuge for my soul in the rush of life.

Nguyễn Thị Hải

I hear the news of the monsoon winds on the radio, and December has arrived. The last month of the year, a year filled with so many changes, is about to pass by, a year with countless plans left unfinished. I imagine that back home, the winter is bitterly cold, the kind of weather typical of the North during the end of the year. This is also the second winter I won’t be able to experience the seasonal shift from autumn to winter, the early chill of the season, and the bitter cold that cuts through the skin. Yet, this 'gift' from nature that you gave me is something I adore. Though the winter is cold, I feel warmth because soon, I will be reunited with family. In the far South, we only have the dry and rainy seasons. “Saigon, sun again, rain again,” I still feel the sharp chill, and I always long for my homeland, for you, my mother.

A young bird, cared for and protected by its parents, will eventually grow up and leave the nest, ready to spread its wings and face the storms and uncertainties of life. This is the inevitable law of nature that everyone must experience, and I am no exception. The tools I take with me into life are the knowledge I gained in school, the passion and curiosity of youth, and most importantly, my mother by my side. I will always remember her words: “Do not steal, do not do anything wrong, live with integrity and hold your head high.” I take this as my personal motto and guiding principle, even though life is far from home, filled with daily struggles and temptations. I believe I will stand strong, never losing myself or compromising my conscience, always moving forward with my head held high. People say I am an artist, and I think that's true, mother. That is my own world, a world of beauty and purity, free from competition. I am like you, full of love, always striving and never giving up.

December has arrived, and the weather is getting colder, isn't it, mother? During the final days of the year, traditional women like you begin to bustle about preparing for the biggest celebration of the year for the Vietnamese. As I grew older, I no longer had the same enthusiasm for Tet, but I now understand the struggles you go through to bring about a warm, full Tet for the family. Behind your smile, I can feel the depth of your love. Even so, I still long for Tet, for only then can I return home and reunite with the family in the warmth that has been missing for so long. I recall a saying: in life, there are two things that cannot be missed: the one you love and the ticket home at the end of the year.

I wish you good health and peace, mother.

MOTHER’S LIES
Now that we’ve grown up
We realize that Mother also lied
The simple meals we had every night
She only chose the fish’s head for us.

We asked her again and again
Why eat the head, so full of bones?
She replied, “I’m old... eat the head... it strengthens the mind
Eating the head will make your bones stronger.”

She also said that your grandparents
Used to give her only the fish meat
She listened to them, but I found it strange
She said eating more would still leave her thin.

Then I grew up, and Mother aged
I understood... she gave up her share... so I could have mine
And soon forgot, for childhood is fleeting
There are no joys or sorrows that last forever.

(Poem by Việt Khoa)

Mai Tuấn Anh

The chill of mid-December seems to be growing more distinct, as the sky generously refrains from unleashing sudden, endless rains that would otherwise never stop.

Whether quietly or noisily, whether in joy or sorrow, whether in success or failure, when the spirit of Christmas fills every corner of the streets... It reaches people, every household. It makes us feel an inexplicable warmth in our hearts, even as the coldest days of the year arrive, and even if loneliness seems to creep in, today’s solitude feels lighter, interwoven with sweetness that promises a new, better Christmas season, because CHRISTMAS BELONGS TO EVERYONE...

Sometimes in life, we don’t need to fully understand something in order to feel its beauty, warmth, joy, and happiness. All we need is to feel it for ourselves—when it brings us joy, when it makes us happy, that’s enough.

Christmas is a holiday awaited by the whole world, not just by Christians. We don’t have to fully grasp or understand what the word CHRISTMAS stands for or its connection to Jesus Christ, for not everyone is fluent in foreign languages. Christmas is the day when God is with us, and it’s also the day we celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ.

Christmas, also known as Noel, is derived from the French word, which comes from Latin, and in Vietnam, we often say Nôel for convenience.

During this time, Christians gather in churches to express their reverence for God. It’s also a time for young couples to come to church, praying that their love will last a lifetime.

For people like us, it’s a chance to come together, to reunite with family, and to enjoy a warm meal in the kind of atmosphere that we may only experience once a year when we can all gather together.

It’s a time to share the stories that we haven’t told in a while, to reconnect with people we haven’t seen in ages, to rediscover the places we haven’t visited in so long...

It’s the perfect excuse to come together, exchange gifts, and celebrate this season of Noel.

During this time, our children don’t need to understand it all. When they see grand Christmas trees with lush green branches, each one tipped with a hint of white to mimic snow, they’re filled with excitement.

They gaze at the golden, warm flicker of candles and the beautifully wrapped gifts beneath the tree. The most magical part? They eagerly await Santa Claus to come and give them presents, believing they’re the only ones lucky enough to receive gifts on Christmas Eve.

And we, as parents, are eager to play the role of Santa Claus, knocking on the door at night, delivering presents to our precious children. We watch their eyes light up with joy, and we know these magical moments will carry over into their dreams, for in their childhood hearts, they will always believe that Santa Claus is real.

Merry Christmas to all, may this Christmas be filled with peace, warmth, joy, and love, surrounded by the people who matter most.

May all the wishes of our children come true, bringing happiness to the parents who love them.

Essay: Lê Minh

December gently knocks on the door, bringing with it the sweet chill of winter, reminding us that the year is almost over. The calendar pages are thinning out, and the days of the old year are slowly coming to an end. We feel an excitement building within us for the new year that’s fast approaching, especially with the joy of returning home to mother. December thus carries many hopes, expectations, and the warmth of family reunions and moments shared with loved ones.

In December, our thoughts drift to the rice fields ready for the planting season, the water just covering the rice stubble. In the late afternoon, the thin, shivering storks wade through the water, diligently searching for food. In the small attic in the bustling town, my heart longs for the golden mustard fields by the riverbank, ready to bloom. I remember the misty mornings when I followed my grandmother to the fields, picking the weeds from the corn, our hands scratched and covered in leaves. I remember carefree afternoons with friends, laughing and running along the embankment, unbothered by the cold wind. I spread my thin arms, as if to embrace the fields, the river, and the cold north winds. We held hands tightly and ran barefoot until we were exhausted, our bodies heated from the movement. In the evening, we would go gather dry branches, looking for sweet potatoes and cassava to roast and fill our hungry bellies. These simple memories have stayed with me, keeping the fire of nostalgia burning every time winter arrives. December brings back fond memories of the warm kitchen fire where mother worked tirelessly to prepare our meals. After lunch, mother would hurry off to the fields, barely stopping to sip a cup of tea, always focused on finishing her chores before it was time to cook dinner. In the evening, mother would return from the rice fields, her hands deftly picking fresh water spinach and long eggplants. Before heading out, she promised us a delicious meal of eggplant stew with pork. As dusk fell and the mist rolled in, we would already have the mats laid out, waiting for her. In the biting cold, my grandfather’s voice would cut through the wind, urging us to eat carefully, laughing as we enjoyed the meal together. December is also a time when I remember my father’s tireless efforts, the muddy fields, and the arduous plowing. Year after year, my parents worked hard, gathering love and peace, ensuring we had everything we needed to study and grow. From their words and their familiar breath, I could hear the weight of their exhaustion...

As each December passes, buried in the worries of adulthood, only the Decembers of childhood remain. I suddenly realize that I have forgotten that beautiful memory, indifferent to the deep love and longing it carried. I must apologize to my humble hometown, to my parents, and to the December that is full of nostalgia. This December, I will make time to return home./.

Nguyễn Hoa Xuân

The cold has started to seep into the streets each morning, and the calendar on the wall is slowly thinning, marking the passing days. Even though we are busy finalizing the year's plans, even though we are caught up in the daily grind for survival, there is...

In life, there are two things that are vague yet unforgettable: sound and scent. The days of December bring with them a scent that is both calming and romantic. It is a fragrance that evokes memories of what has passed. And on one sudden December morning, we are startled, searching, because the scent in the wind is so familiar. Maybe in that crowd... December is made of sleepless nights, where we lie counting the long hours. Then, we hear music from afar, faint and dreamlike, "That Christmas season, you lead me into love," a melody so tender, so heart-wrenching. We strain our ears to listen, and the distant echoes draw near, so real. Such a small, old song, yet it stirs up emotions so effortlessly. And then there are the December memories. Memories that, out of nowhere, come rushing back the moment we wake up. We remember the endless rains that seemed never to end, the gray skies stretching to the horizon. We recall the damp afternoons, walking home from school along country roads. We remember the cold winds, sitting and dreaming of brighter days ahead. We long for the warmth of a hand seeking another in the freezing cold, eyes sparkling with hope. We remember faces close together in some corner, on the last December night, blurry and beautiful... All of these things now flood my heart, and how dearly I miss them! Now, in December, the streets are filled with lights and flowers. The festive atmosphere fills every corner. Lights twinkle on skyscrapers. Music fills the streets. Christmas carols and New Year songs echo through the air. People seem busier, racing against time. Hearts become more generous, ready to let go and prepare for what's ahead. December feels like a pause in the year, a moment to reflect on the days gone by and to continue moving forward. Nature is clever. Every December is beautiful. The sky is beautiful. The sun is beautiful. The flowers and leaves are beautiful. And the people too. The men of December are strong, free-spirited, and sincere. The women of December are passionate, romantic, and charming. Thus, December is also called the wedding season. In the past, I often wondered, isn't love the reason for marriage? Why does it need a specific season? It turns out that sometimes people need a reason to create a conclusion. They've loved enough, known enough, and shared enough. So they choose this chilly, festive, dreamy month to unite. And then, years later, they’ll recall that December when it all began... One afternoon, sitting in a familiar corner of a café, next to the clear laughter of a friend. I absent-mindedly watch the sunlight fall on the leaf-strewn floor. I idly calculate my life through the eleven months of the year. The gains and losses suddenly seem so light. Sometimes, simply having a cup of fragrant coffee and feeling peace in my heart, amidst the bustling city, is joy enough. Farewell, December.

ĐOÀN TÂM

As the year draws to a close, the final pages of the calendar are torn away. December, though just beginning, will soon pass, and it calls for a special farewell, doesn't it?

December, the last month of the year, is also the one that stirs the most emotions. The rush of a year soon to be over, mixed with the excitement and joy of a new year’s arrival, fills everyone with a sensation that is hard to describe. People feel the need for love, for connection, and for giving more to life...

December, a month of reunion and bonding. Isn’t it during December that people return home, to their loved ones, from far away? Without December, the journey back would seem distant, hidden behind the eyes of those waiting. Without December, January, February, March, and all the months that follow would never arrive.

December, a brief moment in time. When the final month of the year arrives, people often pause to reflect on the past eleven months. Some sigh in relief, glad to have survived the year’s hardships. Others look back with satisfaction, proud of something they’ve accomplished. Whether filled with joy or regret, December allows people to return to themselves, to let go, and to prepare for a new year filled with plans, aspirations, and challenges ahead.

In the morning, as the last page of the calendar is torn off, we are startled to realize it’s already December. Scrolling through Facebook, we see friends greeting the month with different moods. Some are eager, some are wistful.

It is evident that, even if we stand still, life keeps moving. Whether we like it or not, the days go on. One day, summer is still blazing, then autumn arrives swiftly, and before we know it, winter knocks on the door. Now, winter too rushes by, leaving behind only what remains.

Perhaps it is because time moves so fast that we, too, become hurried. Yesterday, I met a young couple asking for directions. They asked with such kindness, knowing the feeling of being lost, as they once were when they first entered the city, confused like chicks separated from their mother. So, whenever someone asks for directions, I give them my full heart. I even took out paper and a pen to help them visualize it more easily. After listening, they walked away calmly, forgetting to thank me. Perhaps they were in a hurry. I tell myself this to avoid feeling disappointed by life.

I also remember my first December in Saigon. Early in the morning, while wandering on Khanh Hoi Bridge, I saw a skinny cyclo driver bending over to carry a foreign couple who were three to four times heavier than him. Despite the morning chill, the man was sweating profusely, laboriously pedaling the heavy vehicle, with each turn of the pedal making the wheels creak. I watched, worried that the cycle might tip over any moment. The two passengers, however, sat unbothered, pointing and taking pictures.

It struck me, perhaps it’s the end of the year, and he is pushing himself beyond his limits to provide for his children, buying them new clothes. People are competing, working hard to meet their year-end targets, and he is no different—it's all for the daily bread. While others celebrate their achievements with glasses of sparkling wine, this cyclo driver celebrates with the smiles of his children, the fulfillment of his family.

In the countryside, December marks the final harvest. How I wish the fields, lush and green, still glistening with sweat, could stretch endlessly, reflecting the hardworking smiles of the farmers. May the wind gently caress, and the rain fall softly. May the sun shine long enough, and the workers have the strength to till the soil. The last meal of the year should carry a little extra salt, to ease the hardships of the farmers.

December also brings the birthday of my father, a reminder that he’s a year older. I find myself paying attention to his graying hair and the crow’s feet around my mother’s eyes. The marks of time seem to be drawing, decorating the faces of the ones I love. It saddens me, and yet I realize it is the eternal cycle of life. All things are born, grow, age...

December also reminds me that the Lunar New Year is fast approaching. It’s been so long since I spent the New Year with my grandmother, and she has now been gone for 10 years. She was always so concerned about the lives of her children and grandchildren, but perhaps her earthly affairs were finished, and it was time for her to go. I miss her smile, the one with the betel nut-stained teeth, and the familiar stooped back of my grandmother.

As I reflect, December has only just begun, and there are still many days ahead to finish what’s left of this year. We will pack it up, placing it into the vault of memories, and bring only joy and love into the new year, leaving behind sorrow for the past. Then, we will turn the page of the calendar, and continue writing for the coming year.

December, perhaps it is time to leave behind the melancholy, the faded emotions of the old year, and embrace the special days ahead in the new year, with something sweet and remarkable... And await the surprises that will come, for joy often arrives last...

Lâm Hùng

December touches the doorstep. For me, the last months of the year bring the most bittersweet, nostalgic feelings.

There are times when I just want to float through the lingering memories, the simple things that have become so familiar over time. On days when I’m far from home, I can almost feel the winter wind carrying my thoughts back to my loved ones. I wonder, is my mother in the warm kitchen, or perhaps in the garden, listening to the cheerful songs of birds?

How much has my little child grown? The soft, childish voice during our calls makes me so eager to return. As the evening shadows stretch over the river, I can imagine my mother gazing longingly, wishing for my return, as the chill of the year’s end sets in.

There is nothing warmer than the corner of my mother's kitchen, where the firelight burns softly. Coming home, sitting beside her, and spending the quiet afternoons together, I can almost hear the tender whispers of the wind carrying the familiar smells of her cooking, and the crackling of the fire as it recalls memories of love and care.

“People are enchanted by glamour, captivated by the shiny, but tears only fall for the simplicity that comes from the heart” (Nguyễn Ngọc Tư). Memories are like the subtle flickering flame in a dream, resonating with the longing of a child far from home, forever clinging to the image of their homeland.

I returned, walked through the garden, and saw the seeds my mother planted sprouting. Even in the cold end-of-year air, the sweet greens, lettuce, and herbs still thrive, nurtured by my mother's tender care. Behind the house, the bean sprouts she has carefully cultivated are growing strong in the clay pot.

My little child always rushes to the garden with my mother, checking the rows of vegetables and the bean vines, sitting next to her and whispering, wishing the plants would grow quickly. The banana leaves sway gently in the wind, saved for wrapping traditional cakes. The yellow pumpkin flowers dance in the breeze, like little bells calling me back to the simplicity of childhood.

My mother picks the tender pumpkin shoots, cooking them with sweet potato shoots and salted fish. On sunny days, she works tirelessly to harvest the vegetables, carrots, shallots, and onions, preparing them to make pickles in a small jar. When the cold wind blows in the evening, my father catches fresh crabs to cook a savory crab soup.

In December, the slow-moving afternoon fog thickens, and the winter sun's weak rays shine through. I suddenly feel my heart softened by the pure, gentle sunlight that filters through the sparse leaves. The dream of the changing seasons seems to still linger in the air, and the golden rays touch me, guiding me back to the tender memories.

The chickens return to their coop in a steady line, preening their feathers, and the birds lazily fly back to their nests, leaving behind their songs. The rustling leaves in the breeze from the green plants, the lively chatter of children playing in the yard, and my mother sweeping the fallen leaves—all these sounds have become so familiar, etched deeply in my heart, reminding me of myself when I feel lost, bringing me back to who I am when I return home.

As the year draws to a close, I sometimes wish I could capture all the scents of my mother’s kitchen to ease the ache of homesickness every time I have to leave. The smoke from the dried leaves fills the air, as familiar and comforting as breathing itself, bringing to life memories of home. The gentle fragrance of the herbal tea my mother brews fills the room, soothing and warming, slowly dissipating into the chill of the season.

The smell of earth rising after rain, the mouthwatering scent of fish simmering, and the sharp fragrance of burning firewood crackling in the stove. The fresh, earthy scent of a pot of bathwater with lime leaves and lemongrass fills the small kitchen, wrapping everything in warmth, despite the cold winds outside.

All these smells blend together into a peaceful, silent joy that fills my heart. My eyes water as I experience the bliss of being surrounded by the scents that have always been part of my memories. The tears are a quiet expression of gratitude for still having a place to return to, a place of love and belonging...

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