Top 10 Best Essays on October

The morning arrives with delicate sunlight casting over the countryside, and the night’s dew lightly glistens on the flowers and leaves. The mist is no longer heavy enough to bend the grasses. A gentle breeze brushes past, as though afraid to disturb the dreamy stillness of the plants. Yet, on the fields, the sounds of laughter and chatter fill the air, along with the hum of harvest machines. The sparrows chirp happily, collecting scattered rice, while the swallows dart through the sky, playfully chasing each other.

The fields are filled with the rich scent of ripening rice, transforming in the cool autumn morning. From a distance, the fields appear like a vast, sprawling canvas, dominated by two primary colors: the golden yellow of freshly harvested rice and straw, and the fresh brown earth peeking out from plowed furrows. The village is busy with the harvest, eagerly preparing the land for the new season.

The sun climbs higher, casting a brilliant but gentle light. It glimmers on tilted hats and on drops of sweat falling from the rosy faces of village women. The sunlight sparkles in their eyes and smiles, blending with the scent of the rice fields. The sky in mid-autumn is clear and high, dotted with soft white clouds, casting thin shadows across the fields. In the distance, the cooing of pigeons can be heard calling to each other.

By midday, the brilliant blue sky begins to shift, and by late afternoon, dark clouds gather, bringing a chill breeze. It feels like a storm is on the way, enough to dampen clothes but not enough to soak the rice being dried in the sun. In my hometown, we call this weather a 'Rươi rain'—sporadic and capricious, causing farmers to watch nervously. 'September 20th, October 5th,' they say, marking the peak of the Rươi season. The thought of it brings memories of the faint smoke rising from my childhood home, filled with the smell of freshly cooked rice and the fermented shrimp paste seasoned with tangerine peel. The elders, busy with dinner preparations, laugh and share stories of love and warmth.

As the evening approaches, the air grows crisp, evoking a nostalgic feeling as the autumn breeze sweeps over the land. The golden sunlight fades, giving way to the pale, smoky purple hues of dusk. The village feels alive with the sounds of children playing, the chickens calling to each other, and the pigs squealing for food. The sky is filled with the hum of kites soaring through the air, adding a soft melody to the quiet evening. It feels like the village has a heartbeat, rhythmically pulsing through the day and night.

And then, the moon rises. The October moon is full and bright, like a young woman in her prime, casting a soft glow behind the ancient banyan trees. The night mist gathers, intensifying the chill. Elderly villagers gather in small groups, sipping tea and sharing stories, while the young couples steal quiet kisses in the warmth of their homes. A day in October ends with the world transitioning, the earth and sky wrapping up the cycle of seasons.

For the farmers, the daily hustle and bustle becomes a seamless part of the passing months. From planting to harvest, day and night blur into one continuous flow. As the day winds down, the peaceful night settles in, with only the bright moon shining down on the fields, casting silver and gold light over the land.

In the passage of time, October leaves a quiet mark on the heart, a fleeting memory like a raindrop or a whisper of wind, sometimes returning as a bittersweet longing.

Viên Nguyệt

The storms are unpredictable this year. Yet, there are days when the weather is neither sunny nor rainy, just a quiet melancholy, like a young girl recovering from illness... then comes the wind, the rain, the slight chill. It’s October after all. The nighttime rain stirs up feelings of longing, and that’s when the mind quiets down to reflect on the past. Life is not always consumed by worries about survival, societal gossip, or material gains and losses. Sometimes, thoughts wander, aimless yet profoundly near, almost tangible. As one poet said, 'slower than stopping.'

In October, I recall the fields, the stubble turning dark as the harvest season fades into memories. The land, having given its essence to the crops for months, now rests, ready for the new season. The haystacks, damp and awaiting the brief warmth of sunlight, send wisps of smoke swirling in the breeze, carrying the earthy scent of wet soil.

In October, across the neighbors' homes, the sparrows chirp happily in the sunlight, occasionally fluttering down to pick up fallen grains, only to disappear into the horizon. October leaves behind the wistful autumn breeze, the nostalgic feeling of past seasons. The fleeting moments of love are like a breeze that slips through thin clothing, evoking memories of a tender touch. I remember the innocent gaze, the care in those first days of love, before the complications of life take over. Time passes, but the early love is hard to forget.

The days of October grow shorter, and the nights stretch out. I cannot forget the sleepless nights back in my hometown, listening to the soft sounds of crabs rustling in their baskets, freshly caught in the afternoon. The crispy, golden locusts, when fried, are deliciously fragrant, and the taste lingers long after the meal. But now, those locusts are gone, replaced by the red and green grasshoppers that appear when the fields are dry.

October for me is the image of fields, submerged in water, with golden yellow residue floating on the surface, and the sight of the fiery storks soaring in the twilight. The fields seem more ephemeral, as dusk falls quickly, and the riverbanks echo with the calls of ducks at the close of day. October brings memories of the fragrant fish stew and the sound of the crackling fire, seasoned with garlic, chili, and ginger—a taste that lingers in my heart, even from far away. I wonder why, in nature, only rice must 'become the girl'—why rice flowers are not simply called flowers, and why in many places, people call their mothers 'mẹ' instead of 'mà.'

October makes me listen to the sound of leaves falling from the trees. The midday rain is like a sad memory. It's like the day I left, unaccompanied. At night, the weather forecast reports a new storm forming somewhere over the East Sea...

Collected

For the memories!

As October softly touches the street corners, I find myself filled with nostalgia for the October days of the past...

October. The sunlight, like liquid glass, dances in the deep blue eyes of my childhood friend, making me momentarily lost. We had played together for so long, yet it was the first time I noticed how clear and beautiful his gaze was. One afternoon, he placed a wreath of white cross-bread flowers on my head and asked, “Will you be my bride?”. I smiled gently, looking up to meet his eyes, sparkling like the first light of dawn. In that moment, I was puzzled, wondering why a boy’s eyes could be so innocent and pure. Years have passed, yet I never answered that question, but his crystalline gaze remains forever etched in my memory...

October. I loved those moments running with friends down the narrow alley. We’d dash along the path, calling each other to wake up early and pick ripe yellow star fruit. The sweet-sour smell of the fruit stirred the hearts of young children, those of us with sun-kissed hair. By morning, the last of the ripe fruits bid farewell to their mother tree, resting gently on the fallen leaves. The leaves cradled them like older sisters tucking their younger siblings to sleep. The star fruit, lying peacefully in their golden nest, awaited the small hands of children to take them. Holding the fruit, I gazed at it, asking quietly, “Hey, did you get hurt during your night journey?”. Then, I softly caressed the little fruit, turning it in my hands like I was comforting it, “I’m here to take care of you. Let’s be friends.” I tucked it in a small, cute cloth bag, enjoying its fragrance whenever I wished...

October. How I longed for those hard-working days! One morning, I woke to hear my mother urging my father to go harvest rice before the earth had even turned light. The waning moon cast a delicate glow through the window, and I couldn’t fall back to sleep. Restless. I tossed and turned, then jumped out of bed to cook rice and prepare food. At four in the morning, with mist in the air and damp grass underfoot, I ventured to the fields to help my parents. My heart pounded, like I had never been so scared before! I got scolded, but deep inside, I was blissfully happy. After harvesting a bit, my back ached terribly. I sat down to catch my breath when a fat cicada flew by. Ah! And a grasshopper, too! I plucked its legs and gently placed it in my hand to admire, finding the countryside so fascinating. Then, I looked up to see my mother still working hard in the fields. Her cheeks were flushed, even though the sun had not yet risen. A few rows away, my father worked diligently, his thin back soaked in sweat. I quickly placed the insects in my mother’s old hat, then got back to work, despite the pain in my hands. I gathered the rice, stacking it into small bundles to carry back to the rice field. My tiny arms couldn’t carry much, and as I walked, some rice spilled, but I tried to carry more. The rice was piled up at the edge of the field, and while waiting for the threshing machine, I played. My stomach full of rice, I wished every day could be like this! Then, I wandered, looking for wild grass, tying it with a tiny, violet-tinted grass stalk to play with my friend in the alley...

October. The teacher announced that we would have a break to help with family chores. Oh, how wonderful! A three-day break to roll around in the hay. At five in the morning, I woke up with my siblings to sweep the yard and find a spot for drying crops. We took turns watching and working while playing hide-and-seek, marbles, and jumping rope with friends. Was there any greater happiness? By noon, my mother sent me to gather hay along the roadside. The golden hay, like the autumn sun, smelled of the land, of the countryside. As I turned the hay over, I couldn’t help but take deep breaths, savoring the scent of the countryside in the air. The sun was soft, and my siblings worked to gather rice and hay. Rice was stacked into bags and taken home on the cart to dry again tomorrow. The hay, on the other hand, was piled along the roadside in neat little mounds. The sun, feeling sorry for my mother’s hard work, bathed the village roads in golden light. By the third day, the hay was dry and brittle. In the late afternoon, my mother called us to help bring it back. The cart strained under the weight, and my mother carefully tied the load while we scurried behind. I loved the moment when the whole family gathered to stack the hay. My father picked a long piece of bamboo to use as a pole, and we started to pile the hay higher and higher. My father stood on top, quickly spreading the hay evenly around. His face was red, but his hands moved skillfully. My mother smiled encouragingly, urging us to keep going. Everyone was sweating, but it seemed like we all wished that moment could last just a little longer. The laughter echoed through the quiet countryside, as we stacked the hay securely and covered it with a protective layer, like a cloak against the elements.

And so, the three days of break passed like a dream. I reluctantly dragged out the childhood dream, playing games with my neighbors, running after one another, then lying peacefully next to the freshly stacked hay. Our dreams smelled of hay, of wide open fields. A few days later, my mother burned the hay stubble in the fields, and I invited my friends to play nearby. I stared at the white smoke drifting slowly upward, lost in thought. I took a deep breath, as though I feared that the wind would carry it away, never to return. In those innocent days, I couldn’t help but feel attached to that lonely smoke, fading and disappearing into the air...

But soon, there was no smoke to be found, and my eyes stung with sudden tears. I snapped back to reality, looking out at the city street, where fallen star fruits lay forgotten, untouched. Suddenly, a shiny car sped by. The leaves flew, and the sunlight shattered. Holding October’s bittersweet memory in my hands, I felt as if a part of me had broken... I stood still, faintly hearing distant voices calling out:

“October!
October!
Oh, October!...”

Dương Châu Giang.

Sometimes, I feel as if time is moving too fast. Just recently, the students were filled with excitement as the school year began in September. And now, October has arrived. The weather suddenly calms, with a misty chill in the air, the crisp autumn fog gently hanging over the streets. October is gentle and nostalgic, bringing with it sweet memories of love that linger in the air.

In October, Hanoi's streets offer breathtaking moments, bathed in the enchanting colors of autumn. Occasionally, while walking, I find myself humming a song: "Hanoi in autumn, the trees' golden leaves/ The red leaves of the banyan, resting side by side/ The old streets, with their brown tiled roofs." Yes, during this season, the brilliant hues of the leaves intertwine above the rooftops, the colorful autumn foliage filling the air. The leaves overlap and blanket the ancient buildings of this historic capital, creating a unique painting for those who love Hanoi.

As I gaze at the fluttering autumn leaves, I am reminded of the days of youth. My school days were full of youthful poetry, carefully written in a small notebook. The teenage years had their share of joys, sorrows, and playful quarrels. Later on, when we reunited, we always laughed at the stories from those days.

I recall a time when we skipped school, riding our bikes out to the countryside surrounding Hanoi. We marveled at the golden rice fields stretching far into the distance. The scent of freshly harvested rice wafted in the breeze. On other afternoons, we'd ride our bikes across the Long Bien Bridge and stop by the Red River, where we bought freshly boiled corn or grilled corn from the locals. The sweet, tender corn was such a treat. We would kick off our sandals and walk barefoot on the wet, muddy soil of the riverbanks, feeling the harmony of nature. Time passes, but I will always cherish the memories of those youthful smiles, the laughter echoing through the reeds by the riverbank.

The sun and wind in October are truly special. It’s not as gentle as spring sunlight, nor as harsh as summer, nor as dry as winter. The October sun bathes everything in a soft, golden hue, just warm enough to make everything feel tender, like the soft rice stalks, just strong enough to tie together the delicate green rice cakes. The sun reflects on the ripening pinkish-red persimmons, and the green rice cakes glisten under its golden rays. The autumn wind carries the scent of fall, cool but not humid from the rain. It brushes against the trees, causing leaves to rain down onto the ground.

October, when the lotus flowers have faded, is when the chrysanthemums bloom. The large, golden chrysanthemums with their elegantly curved petals seem to curl inwards, creating a delicate and sophisticated beauty. The sun and autumn breeze blend perfectly with the flowers' golden petals, evoking a warmth that stirs the soul. A bouquet of chrysanthemums, glowing with vibrant yellow, brings the essence of autumn into the living room, a simple yet majestic floral arrangement.

October brings a flood of bittersweet memories. I remember every glance, every smile, every word spoken by my loved one. October feels full of passion, with every look conveying love. At times, the heart is filled with sadness, longing for promises that seem so distant...

When October arrives, the autumn sunlight dyes the familiar streets and corners yellow. And sometimes, I wonder, how many people in the hustle and bustle of life stop for a moment to remember the autumns gone by? How many pause to reflect on the deep, sweet memories that October brings?

Tường Vy

As October arrives, autumn lingers, still entwined with the fading sunlight, yet the footsteps of winter quietly slip through the door, carried by the cool breezes of the season. October, sweet and loving, is also the month when my little girl was born. On a chilly morning in October, my husband and I welcomed our daughter. How happy my mother must have been when she first held her tiny, angelic body in her arms. My daughter’s fair skin, big round eyes, and long, curled eyelashes made everyone around us smile. The neighbors would often joke, "Your daughter is a fairy." But I wasn’t upset by their words; instead, I felt immense joy, as her beauty came from the pure rice grains, the sweet water flowing from the green mountain beside our home, and the clear sky always filled with birdsong each morning. My daughter embodied the peaceful village life in our beautiful Muong region of Hoa Binh. As time passed, she grew into a lively, cheerful child, always running and singing like a little bird. Chubby and round like a ripe sim fruit, her laughter would make her eyes squint, earning her the nickname "Tít". The name stuck, and everyone forgot the beautiful one my husband and I had chosen for her. Every day, my greatest joy was picking her up from school, holding her in my arms, and watching her eyes sparkle with happiness, while breathing in the sweet fragrance of her golden hair, like autumn sunlight. Then came the day she left our village for the bustling city to pursue her education. No words could fully describe the ache in my heart as I missed her over the years. On cold winter afternoons, with the mountains hidden behind mist, I would long for my daughter. I missed her smile, her voice, and the warmth of her small arms around me. Sometimes, unable to bear the loneliness, I would travel over mountains and winds to visit her at school, just to embrace her for a while, share a meal together, and ease the yearning that filled my heart. My daughter worked hard in her studies, always thinking of her parents, and the reward was the certificates and accolades that piled up over the years. At fourteen, my daughter was as beautiful as a full moon. But it was also then that we went through the hardest times of our lives. She fell seriously ill on Christmas Eve. That year, the Trí Đức church was illuminated with colorful lights, filled with laughter and joy, while I felt as though my insides were being shredded. While everyone outside was dressed up, strolling through the streets, my daughter was fighting for her life, surrounded by machines and wires. Many nights, I stayed awake by her side, enduring the pain with her. Year after year, I carried my bag, going with her to countless hospitals. I slept on hospital benches, ate tasteless meals, and forced myself to eat just enough to stay strong for her. There were nights when I couldn’t dare to close my eyes, fearing that if I fell asleep, my daughter might slip away like a white dove. On mornings when I saw young girls in their white uniforms heading to school, I thought of my daughter lying in the hospital, and my heart ached. Many times, in front of the emergency room, I saw her small body tangled in wires, and tears flowed uncontrollably down my face. I wished, so many times, that I could trade my life for hers, so she could be healthy again. But even through my tears, I tried to smile as brightly as I could when I visited her, hoping to comfort her. Yet, there were moments when I couldn’t hide my tears. Once, lying in her hospital bed, my daughter quietly wrote on a piece of paper and handed it to me: "Mom, don’t cry! It hurts me when I see you cry!" Heaven had tested our faith and perseverance in the cruelest way. It cost my daughter nearly ten years of her youth and my own hardships. When you face the deepest suffering, you come to understand the true meaning of humanity: the cruelty, the separation, and the warmth of those who share your pain. I still remember the kind words of the old soldiers, who, before leaving the hospital, would hand me their last coins and encourage us: "Stay strong, both of you!" Or the young soldier’s voice: "Don’t cry, I’ve bought some porridge for you. Eat and stay strong for your child!" Through those difficult years, I always prayed for a miracle for my little girl. I believed that optimism and kindness would help us through. Perhaps Heaven had heard my prayers, for my daughter finally defeated death. She bravely overcame her illness, surpassed many of her peers, and earned her university degree. Now, she has a stable job and a small, happy family. This, I believe, is the most deserved reward for all the struggles my daughter and I endured. October has come again. Sweet, golden, fragrant October, like a ripe fruit hidden deep inside. The October of my memories, full of nostalgia for the final days of autumn. My daughter, born in October, has blossomed into a beautiful, gentle woman, just like autumn itself. Today, she turns 25—an age full of maturity, love, and sweetness. But to me, she will always be the little girl I held in my arms all those years ago. After all the struggles and hardships, all I wish for is her eternal peace and happiness. May she forever be my beautiful autumn girl!

Sometimes, I feel like time passes too quickly. It feels like just yesterday that students were excited by the ringing bells marking the start of the new school year in September. And now, October has arrived, gently ushering in the sweet autumn days, with sunlight softly dancing on the last lotus flowers of the season, and a slight chill in the air, signaling the early days of the cool breeze.

October is strange. At times, it urges you to be quiet for a moment, to reflect and long for something that seems distant. But in reality, it has only awakened memories from the past. Thoughts of my mother, my father, and the home I left behind. The October days from long ago felt so peaceful.

October brings a sudden wave of nostalgia, the laughter of childhood friends echoing in the fields. We used to play games like 'Dragon and Snake' and tug-of-war. Oh, how fun it was. Reflecting now, I wonder, what is the scent of October? Could it be the earthy smell of burned rice fields? And what about its taste? The sweetness of roasted cassava and sweet potatoes, which we ate greedily, always wanting more, yet never enough. Despite it all, those were the carefree moments of childhood, the memories we carry forever in our hearts. Later in life, we smile, but our eyes betray us, filled with tears as memories of love and longing overwhelm us, too difficult to put into words.

As October approaches, I find myself missing my mother more than ever. She is still as hardworking as ever, taking care of her children. October is when she pulls out our winter coats and blankets, preparing for the cold. Standing in the sunlight, she smiles and calls out, 'Tèo has grown so fast; this coat no longer fits. I’ll give it to the younger one. I’ll buy you a new one with the fresh rice money.' She has always been like this, always giving, never stopping to rest. Even now, she still does not have a moment for herself. My mother has always lived through the storms of life, enduring the harsh winds and the passage of time. I now realize how much I miss her.

In October, my grandmother's garden is full of fruits. Fragrant bananas and guavas fill the air. I stand in the garden, remembering the poems she used to teach us, her grandchildren: 'If you close your eyes in the wind-blown garden/You can hear the chirping of the birds/And the delicate songs of birds hidden in the leaves.' Those memories are bittersweet, reminding me of simpler times.

In the busy city, surrounded by the constant rush of life and struggles with daily survival, I sometimes long for the peaceful life in the countryside. The warm and welcoming bonds of family and neighbors. Thinking about the past, life was tough, yet joyful. We may eat a variety of dishes now, but I still crave the meals my mother used to cook: water spinach, boiled sweet potatoes dipped in soy sauce, and salted eggplant—simple, but unforgettable. The taste of home, the taste of childhood. It is what many who left their hometowns will always yearn for, wanting to return one day.

October brings news of a storm, heavy rains flooding the land. I call my parents, but I can barely hold back my tears as I hear my mother’s voice quivering with worry. These are the moments when parents worry, when they struggle against the storms of life. I often curse the heavens for being unfair to those who work hard under the sun. Where are their homes now? Everything is submerged. My heart aches for October, for Central Vietnam. My thoughts are filled with the hardships and struggles that are hard to express in words. The tears fall quietly, unaware of when they started.

October, the memories and feelings never fade. These October days will always be precious, forever etched in our hearts. The memories will remain, following us through the years. And when life becomes tiring and fragmented, we will always remember these moments, find comfort in them, and reconnect with our true selves, embracing peace once more.

THÙY HƯƠNG

October arrives with a gentle breeze that stirs the soul. Is it the wind that makes the October sunshine brighter, sweeter? The sunlight feels like a vivid oil painting of autumn. The ancients aptly described the October sun: "October is sunny, yet it has nothing."

During this season, the streets are filled with the intoxicating scent of milk flowers. Their pale white clusters hide in some alley or beneath a tree, yet their fragrance silently unveils itself, much like a beautiful woman who, though trying to hide, reveals her hidden allure. The scent of the milk flowers lingers, slowing the pace of any passerby, pulling them into a nostalgic reverie. The winds of October sweep across the streets, leaving young hearts in awe, their hair tousled by the breeze, as if touched by the clouds above. The winds of October remind us of the gusts from the past, blowing through the fields after harvest, bringing the earthy scent of mud and hay into the villages. It was then that children played freely in the fields. After tiring from games like tag or snake, they would hunt for rats or catch crickets. The bonfires they made to roast sweet potatoes and corn, or even baby rats, evoke a sense of nostalgia. The smoke, drifting in the wind, would float back into the village, bringing a warm simplicity to the rural landscape. On windy afternoons, children would fly their kites into the vast, clear sky. The sound of the bamboo flutes echoed like a song, a lullaby for the childhood dreams that soared into the sky, to distant, imaginary horizons. The winds of October have always been linked with memories of a peaceful, carefree youth. When October comes, my mother would take out the warm clothes to dry, preparing for the cold winter ahead. Now, every time October arrives, my heart is filled with longing for my mother.

In the October nights, the fragrance of the gardenias quietly fills the air. Petals fall softly on the ground, adding to the tranquility of the evening. In the hustle and bustle of the city, my heart still stirs when I hear the song: "Hometown is the bright moonlit night. Gardenia flowers fall beside the steps." I recall the corners of the yard from my childhood, where I played hide-and-seek under the moonlight. The autumn night was quiet, the coolness of the evening air began to settle, and my mother would cover me with a light blanket as I turned over and listened to the soft chirping of crickets in the garden. Sometimes, I wished I were a little cricket, singing until my voice gave out, sipping the dewdrops of the night, stepping on the wet grass, and gazing at the autumn moon all night.

Now, October nights seem longer, filled with memories of a distant childhood that has turned into a fairy tale. On sleepless nights, I would get up, put on a coat, and step out onto the balcony. The tall buildings blocked the moon, and the rush of cars on the street could never match the peaceful sound of the crickets from those nights long ago.

The winds of October stretch like the longing for the past, yet they are not magic that can take us back to those days. Do the winds still blow through the fields as they did back then? Or have they stopped coming to the fields of yore? The winds seem to carry the soft lullaby: "The autumn wind, my mother sings to lull me to sleep, counting the hours of the night." Will my mother still take my warm clothes out to dry this October?

Essay by KIM NHUNG

The warmth of October sun is like a sweet embrace... The scorching heat of summer is gone, replaced by the soft golden rays of October that blend with the chilly autumn breeze, inviting the soul to unwind. The clouds seem heavier now, thicker than before, no longer light and fleeting like they were in early August. There’s a gentle hum in the air, faint whispers that sound like a sigh, as if the falling leaves and the creaking branches are sharing their quiet stories with us. Time, though it may pass slowly, stirs our hearts when we think of October, a bridge between fall and winter, a precursor to the end of one year and the beginning of another cycle. In this month, the last of the lotus flowers strive to bloom, their fragrance rising to awaken something deep within me. The pure, untainted scent, a subtle yet powerful allure, stirs something in my soul, even in my dreams. Outside, on the porch, the withering chrysanthemums bend toward the coming of October, quietly bidding farewell to the fading autumn as they move forward into the cold. This evening, the first gust of the northeastern winter wind opens the symphony of the season, as gentle breezes cascade from the northeast, stirring an emptiness deep within me. October reminds me of the first time I met him, in a windswept afternoon. The path from home to school, once described as a straight and clear road by teachers, now seems even straighter and clearer in my memory of October. It was in that month, after sixteen years of relentless study, that I became a teacher. Though it was a small achievement, it felt like a fulfillment of a promise to October and to a land full of hope. Ah, the Tứ Quý apricot branches tremble, shaking off golden blooms like joyful notes in the morning sun, giving the illusion of spring’s arrival. Yet, it is the Tứ Quý, who wishes to be part of every season, a reminder of the passing time. October carries with it a fragrance that has followed me throughout my childhood, one that still lingers and haunts me now—the smell of guava. Its sweet scent from my mother's garden fills my heart with nostalgia each time autumn returns. I remember my mother picking the ripe fruit for us to enjoy under the full moon of the Mid-Autumn Festival, and the golden guavas, fragrant and fresh, remain in my heart to this day. The gentle patter of rain, the soft murmur of the wind, brings a quiet longing, a return to memories of being with my mother, enjoying her homemade rice cakes dipped in fragrant fermented soy sauce, so sweet and comforting, a taste that lingers in my soul. And yet, my heart aches with the thought: she is gone now. October stands proud and solemn as I visit the Red River, its mighty waves crashing in the distance. The river, named after its red waters, carries silt to nourish the land, sustaining the crops and the people who have lived alongside it for millennia. I no longer remember how many times I have poured my heart out by this river, but standing here today, looking at its muddy waters flowing relentlessly, I can almost feel the strength and resilience of our nation’s spirit through the ages. The Red River is both familiar and sacred, an embodiment of the legend and the heartbeat of our people. The river flows through the years, through my memories, into the river of nostalgia, carrying with it a pure, unspoken love. And, in that moment, I feel as if I were a small speck of silt, drifting in the current, contributing to the growth and prosperity of the fields and the people. In the midst of October’s beauty, I imagine the small, beloved house of my childhood, with its garden of dong riềng, where red flowers bloomed. The fragrant fields, mingled with the sweet smell of rice and the flowers, create a sensory memory that brings peace to my soul. My siblings and I played freely in the hay, inhaling the countryside’s fresh scent, and life felt so warm and peaceful. October often symbolizes abundance, and I find myself drawn to it for the sense of fulfillment and contentment it brings. It’s as if everything in October comes together—fragrant flowers, ripe fruits, and the gentle breeze that brings peace to my heart, carrying with it the tranquility of golden rice fields and the sounds of birds returning to their nests during harvest. For me, October is a sweet, perfect month, a prelude to winter, full of charm and melody, a time when the world feels like it is melting into something sacred. It’s as though life itself is a blessing in that moment, and October brings with it the spirit of life. Perhaps it is life itself. Minh Tâm

A leaf brushes softly against my cheek, lands briefly on my shoulder, and gently falls onto the sidewalk, merging with the scattered golden leaves, swept lightly by the breeze, as if to remind me that late autumn has arrived. I realize with surprise that the sky over Saigon looks different this morning. The clouds seem lower, as though they’ve descended to shield the sun from its usual sharp rays. The air feels more humid, and the scent of plants and trees mixes with the morning mist, making the autumn fragrance soft and tender, as if clinging to every step.

Yes, October is here. Somewhere, the clouds linger between day and night, drifting through windows, making shoulders feel light with the touch of scarves. Somewhere, the leaves turn color, and rice bends low, ready to part from its stalks. Somewhere, in distant memories, ripe red persimmons sweeten the air, and the scent of ripe peaches fills the corners of the window. Somewhere, the small kitchen corner has traded sour fruits for tamarind in the boiling pot of water spinach, the color remains red but the taste has acquired a bitter sharpness that signals the coming of winter... Somewhere, memories of cheeks flushed by the early autumn sun linger with the laughter carried by the wind. The fragrance of jasmine, milk flowers, and daphne sticks to the memories, forever reminding me of October's full embrace.

In Saigon, the late autumn rain seems to dissipate faster. Though there’s no chilly mist or the fragrant flowers of late autumn here, the early morning and late afternoon chill bring a wave of nostalgia for faraway autumns. But recently, October in Saigon feels like the northern autumn, with its cool, damp temperature. In this gentle warmth of the light sun, the breeze of the changing season carries the scent of flowers in full bloom. In the quiet streets late at night, the fragrance of milk flowers, though scattered and rare, fills the air, lingering long after the rain, a sweet scent like a secret longing.

The persimmons hang, heavy on the dry branches, ripening as the fog of memory thickens. On the market stalls, the plump, ripe persimmons gleam in the light, their perfect round shape a sight of satisfaction. On the street vendors' carts, the ripe fruits are displayed in neat pyramids, or nestled on mats of golden straw, waiting to be sold. The large, plump cherimoyas, like small bowls, crack open to reveal their sweet, white pulp. Mangoes, papayas, and bananas in bright yellow and green hues paint the street scene. The sounds of the market are slower now, with bargains exchanged leisurely, a warmth in the air that reminds me of the simplicity and warmth of Saigon's spirit. Saigon always has its fresh green rice cakes, no matter the season. The rice cakes from the Mekong Delta, either dried or soft with coconut, have a sweet, comforting taste that’s unforgettable. In this sunny land, where the sunlight is unrelenting, October arrives like a pause, a moment of quiet reflection amid the rush of daily life, allowing us to savor the subtle changes in the seasons.

This is the October I am experiencing. A Saigon October, soft and fragrant, with a ripe persimmon in hand, touched by the winds of the Lam Dong highlands. October that melts into the sweetness of green rice cakes with pandan leaves and lingers in my hair with the lonely fragrance of Hanoi's milk flowers. October makes me want to dissolve into the cool, dry autumn air of memories, while also basking in the warm sunlight of Saigon after the chill of the rain. October makes me smile absently as I pass by wedding music, recalling the pink invitations that always lined the table in late autumn. October grows richer with every tender smile of young lovers, holding hands, laughing brightly. Perhaps, everything and everyone blooms in the autumn of the heart, full and warm, ready to embrace the first cold winds of winter.

The afternoon rain in Saigon is now a gentle mist. The coolness of October seems to understand, merging seamlessly with the intoxicating autumn that I have known since birth. I hear the song “Hanoi, this season is missing the rain,” and suddenly, it feels as though I’m lost in the autumn of old Hanoi.

October, oh, October! The autumn is full, and yet my heart feels the emptiness of a season gone by...

NTH

October. It is my favorite month of the year. The intense heat of summer has passed, and the biting cold of winter has not yet arrived. The seasonal breeze arrives gently, like a melodic instrumental piece that stirs our hearts. I long for those evenings with no sun, only wind and clouds...

October. The roads seem longer during these sunless afternoons as I wander, accompanied by the piano melodies of Richard Clayderman, listening to the soft rustle of leaves turning before they fall, and hearing the bright laughter of high school students chatting about their dreams for the future. I can almost hear October itself softly calling, urging the autumn to turn golden, bringing with it the scent of ripe persimmons from Mid-Autumn Festival. The fragrant tea that my father used to brew rouses me from a deep sleep. October, full of sweet memories, is wrapped in simplicity, with dreams of a small home filled with fresh rose pots, colorful paintings, and the joyful laughter of children.

In October, I feel like a daydreamer, drifting through paths lined with pure white wildflowers, small yet irresistibly enchanting. Here, the flowers are still wet with dew, and the sound of crickets echoes, reminding me of the past, as if the insects are stirring the autumn air. I reach out, touching old memories and finding my smile in front of those small flowers. Their fragrance is indescribable, yet their vitality is undeniable. I love the wildflowers, their white as clouds, the flowers that few people appreciate. I often pick freshly bloomed flowers and bring them home, filling my small house with peace and love.

October. My mother gave birth to me on the most beautiful day of the month, a day when all women are celebrated. I remember my mother with all my love and respect. She is my peaceful haven. She is the homeland I long to return to, where childhood memories are filled with kites soaring in the wind, golden rice fields stretching under the wings of flying storks, and fields of yellow mustard flowers brightening the sky as winter approaches. That yellow color always makes my heart ache with nostalgia. Tears almost fall as I hear on the news that a storm is coming. My mother will face it alone, as she has so many times before, whenever the storms arrive in our homeland. My father is gone, leaving my mother to weather the storms, both literal and emotional, as she raised my siblings and me. I promise myself that one day, I will return to her, to listen to her share stories of life in our rural village, where friends meet at the market, exchanging fish and crabs, and where the warmth of village relationships makes those of us far from home yearn for that connection.

October. As the flowers of milkweed begin to release their fragrance throughout the town, I find myself enchanted by its intoxicating aroma. The crisp air makes every step along the familiar paths feel like a nostalgic journey. The wind carries the sweet scent of these flowers, and I wander aimlessly, hoping to capture all their fragrance, as if the season has given it to me as a gift.

October. In Lai Châu, the hills seem to glow with golden rice fields at harvest time. The breeze carries the fresh scent of rice to every corner, as though signaling a time of abundance. I am struck by the romantic colors of autumn in this land, where the terraces look like ladders reaching to the sky, and the golden rice fields blend harmoniously with the floating clouds. It is a moment of pure poetry.

On the terraced fields, children from the Mong ethnic group, with sun-kissed blonde hair, play under a bright morning sky. Some tiny children rest in the shade of an umbrella while their parents work in the fields. The wind seems to lull them to sleep, wrapping them in its gentle embrace. The rice sways softly in the breeze, as if whispering stories to the little ones. Far in the distance, machines are working tirelessly to harvest the rice, gently lifting the heavy grains, reminding me of the hard work that goes into ensuring the crops thrive under the sun.

In October, the days seem to blend into the nights, as the fading sunlight softens under the moon’s glow. Oh, October, take your time. I still hold dear the golden hues of autumn sunlight, the intoxicating fragrance of freshly harvested rice, and the sweet, lingering scent of milkweed. These moments are etched deeply in my memory, filled with sweetness and nostalgia.

Phạm Đào