Top 10 Best Essays on Rain

On these hot summer days, rain is eagerly awaited by many.

Many years ago, farming relied heavily on nature, and farmers needed rain as an essential element for a successful harvest. "Water first, then fertilizer, followed by labor, and finally, good seeds." While we can control most things, water comes only from the sky. During drought years, all water reserves dry up, and it is heartbreaking to watch crops wither. Digging wells, ponds, and trying everything to find water often led to hopelessness. A timely rain was more precious than gold. Not only for crops but also for daily needs. In those times, there was no electricity, no drilled wells or tap water, and people mainly used water from dug wells. When rain was delayed, most wells ran dry, and the few homes with water were seen as treasures to the entire neighborhood, sharing water from one well. Those days, when carrying buckets of water to cook and wash, still remain unforgettable memories.

Children also had their reasons to look forward to rain. On a hot, oppressive day, the cool breeze signaling an incoming rain was a joy. I remember these April days, sitting in class, looking out and feeling the changes in the sky. The wind grew stronger, branches swayed, dry leaves fell in a shower, and the school yard darkened as more clouds gathered, hiding the sun. The rain began slowly, its drops falling with a soft pitter-patter, growing stronger and turning into a heavy downpour. The trees, once barren, became lush and green after the rain, while the blossoms of the flamboyant trees bloomed brightly. The rainstorm would tear the petals from the trees, and children would gather the flowers, making beautiful butterflies to press in their notebooks, scribbling childish notes. If the rain came just when school ended, we'd run through it, getting soaked, but trying to keep our books dry. After the rain, the grass would turn green, promising a joyful summer on the fields. The first rains were always exciting for children.

Water for daily use in the city is no longer a concern thanks to tap water and drilled wells. Workers now have electricity and machines to help irrigate crops for their survival and growth. However, the first rains still bring natural nutrients to plants, and we always look forward to them. There is nothing more beautiful than watching the raindrops fall on large gardens, bringing coolness and promising a fruitful harvest, stable income for farmers, and contributing to the prosperity of the country. Rain is eagerly awaited on hot days, not just by farmers but by anyone who loves the green expanses on this majestic plateau.

Rain also plays a crucial role in preventing forest fires, nature's lungs. In hot, dry weather, even a small spark can start a large fire, threatening the forests of the Central Highlands. The first rains bring relief to the atmosphere, rejuvenating the forests and starting a new season of growth, bringing the dream of green landscapes to many.

Rain can also be a romantic subject for nature lovers. Standing by the window, watching the white rain over the streets, rooftops, and bushes is such a calming experience. The sound of raindrops, clear as crystal, is a deeply evocative image. Though we may no longer run out to play in the rain as children, the joy of feeling the cold raindrops on your skin can still be a pleasure for those who love the rain.

The raindrops, the rain itself, are so endearing and eagerly awaited!

Ai Nguyen

Listening to the radio forecasting the northeastern monsoon and scattered showers, while the hot weather lingers, the noodle seller next door mutters, 'How can they predict rain tomorrow with this scorching heat! But never mind, rain would be nice, the spring rice needs water.' Sure enough, as night falls, the weather turns cold, and by morning, a downpour arrives, accompanied by the thunder and lightning of the season's first storm. The March rain isn't as heavy as summer showers, but it’s enough to make the plants green again after the dry winter months. Particularly, for the rice fields, the saying goes, 'When thunder strikes, the rice grows.' Despite the rice being weak at first, after the rain, they begin to thrive at an astonishing rate.

The March rain is not rushed; it carries a sense of calm and ease, just like people after the hustle and bustle of the New Year holidays. Everyone is less hurried now, returning to their daily routines. The countryside returns to its peaceful rhythm with birds flying over the green fields and farmers tending to their crops. For artists, the March rain brings a fresh inspiration, evoking emotions that turn into beautiful works of art. March is a time of renewal, with nature’s elements coming together to nurture growth. The rain serves as a nourishing tonic, rejuvenating everything it touches, encouraging new beginnings.

The rain also brings to life the blooming of the purple-flowered Indian lilac, a sight that fills the heart with nostalgia for the homeland. After the rain, the sun shines brightly, and birds resume their search for food, darting through the air to catch the insects stirred up by the rain. The lemon trees blossom with fragrant white flowers, and the scent of the blossoms fills the air. In the past, during the lemon blossom season, my siblings and I would gather under the old lemon trees, collecting fallen flowers to make 'perfume.' Though it didn’t smell great, we enjoyed it, laughing as we dabbed it on each other. Those were also the days when the dreaded fleas would swarm around us, leaving us with itchy bites, a reminder of childhood fun and mischief.

The March rains can last for hours or even days. Watching the rain fall brings back memories of faraway places, reminding us of the hometowns where we grew up. The rain falls softly, like a gentle reminder, evoking feelings of longing. Today, watching the March rain, I realize I’m no longer young and need to change, letting go of petty desires, forgiving myself and others, and living a simpler, calmer life. The March rain is a time to cleanse the soul, reminding us of the lilac and lemon flowers in our mother's garden, and the childhood games we used to play. Even though the past seems distant, it is still with us in some form.

Bùi Nhật Lai

As Spring gently unfolds, showcasing its beauty and fragrance, delicate spring raindrops fall like mist, soft and pure. These fresh, tender drops settle on grass tips, flowers, and lightly on the hair of young people strolling down the street. Unlike the loud, fierce summer storms or the relentless winter drizzle, the spring rain is as soothing as a lullaby, calming the soul and filling us with deep emotions.

The spring rain is so light it barely seems to fall. Just enough to cool the heart and add grace to the youthful figures walking the streets; just enough to nurture the buds and blossoms on trees. The spring rain feels like nature’s comforting gesture after the fierce, biting cold of winter. It reassures us that life is still beautiful, reminding us to listen to the love for humanity and nature flowing through our hearts. The raindrops linger in the vibrant eyes of spring, bringing happiness to the Lantern Festival, making the day even more poetic.

The spring rain is so gentle it almost seems non-existent. Only by being still can one hear the soft, soothing sound of the rain, like a faint folk song in the quiet of the night. From the sound of the rain, you can hear the sprouts of flowers and trees, the call of life, the sound of love calling for love. Spring rain is the voice of love itself. It’s a sound you can’t always hear, but you can feel it caressing your skin. It’s a gift from nature to humanity, making our hearts beat in sync with the rhythm of the past, the love of an era filled with both heroic and romantic memories. In this sunny and windy land of Võ, among the golden apricot blossoms that frame the ancient pagodas, the spring rain becomes the shy bud of a romantic love between Emperor Quang Trung in his simple robe and the beautiful Princess Ngọc Hân. The sound of victory mingles with the whispers of love, carried by the gentle spring rain, making us love life even more.

The spring rain is like a piece of jewelry that adds charm to the season. It’s like a thin veil covering the beautiful face of Spring. Behind this veil are dry branches sprouting fresh buds, countless flowers striving to bloom, and hearts filled with love. Perhaps that’s why every year, when the spring rain is absent, it feels like spring isn’t quite complete, and people eagerly wait for its return.

The spring rain has seeped into our hearts over time. Every spring, as we step outside and feel the coolness of the spring rain on our skin, memories flood back, and our hearts warm against the chill of the new year. Maybe that’s why we love the spring rain!

Essay by: Ngô Văn Cư

Sometimes, the sound of rain at night reminds me of the sound of a traditional Vietnamese string instrument. The slow, melancholic melody of the đàn bầu at night, with its raw, dissonant notes, resonates like the soft patter of rain that seems in no rush, as if the night stretches endlessly for the rain to soak in, a bittersweet pleasure. Occasionally, a gust of wind makes the rain tap louder against the roof tiles before fading into a playful rhythm, teasing those who can't sleep through the long night.

I often lie down listening to the rain at night. The sound of cats meowing for their mates on the roof reminds me of childhood fears. I used to imagine it was the cry of a lost child calling for their mother. I would wonder where the mother had gone at such a late hour. I think of the character Nhung from the play *Tướng Cướp Bạch Hải Đường* who left her child behind. The fear of separation never truly fades, and no matter how old I get, the sense of loss feels like the innocence of a child looking for their mother. The cat's cry in the rain echoes the lost child, a woman lost within herself.

I hear words of love in the rain, of people who are far apart, their hearts connected only by the rain, bridging the gap between two souls. Love is always more beautiful in distance, 'beautiful when it's still unfulfilled.' Perhaps that's the law of balance, where we gain one thing but lose another. Without loss, gain would be empty. Like rain that dampens the sunny days, it refreshes but also chills. The sound of the rain is both joyful and sorrowful, a mixture of parting, love, gentleness, and stormy passion.

The sound of the rain is like a song of memories, a melody that reminds us of the past. The rain falls in intermittent drops, like the scenes of childhood flashing through the mind of someone awake in the silence of the rainy night. Some may remember the warmth of their mother's embrace during a cold, rainy night. Some may recall a lover shared shelter with under a roof, wondering where they are now. Others might think of a person living in the same house, but now just 'someone from the past.' Time changes everything, or perhaps it is we who change, yet we blame time unfairly. The rain always makes us think of sadness, or perhaps it is sadness that makes us attribute it to the sound of the rain.

I also think of myself—my 20s, full of passion, living fully for my dreams. And then, myself in my 30s, more quiet, busier, my dreams placed in a corner of my soul while I spent my time in the hustle for survival. The rain gently falls, and I lie down, cradling myself in my arms, the woman who has weathered many rainy seasons, keeping herself warm with the fire of her own pride.

A gust of wind passes, a few stray raindrops land against the window. In the light of lightning, I see the betel palms bending under the rain, swaying from one side to the other. But by morning, they will stand tall as if nothing ever bent them, just as my mother would always wait for me, shielding me from the storms of life. When the storm passes, the sound of the rain is like a peaceful melody, soothing my worries and healing the hearts that ache with the quiet of the night.

The rain, the sound of rain at night, is like the secret whispers of a friend, a friend we may never recognize until we return to ourselves and realize that this friend has always loved us the most. This friend could be the passionate girl of 20, the busy woman of 30, or the woman who comforts herself while lying there, listening to the rain at night.

Kim Loan

This season, the rain stretches across the sky, turning everything into a blanket of white. From my office, I watch the rain pouring down in torrents, and a feeling of unease creeps over me. A brief moment of worry, then memories come rushing in, flooding my mind. Those nostalgic rainy days. My peaceful hometown nestled beneath the endless curtain of rain...

The feeling of longing starts with my mother's sigh. "Why is it raining so much today?" On those heavy rainy days, she couldn't go out to the fields or to the market. She would sit by the porch, stitching hats. She made hats from palm leaves—using what was available to earn a little extra. Occasionally, she would pause, staring at the rain as if reflecting on something, needing a moment of solitude. It seemed that rain made people even more melancholic. I never saw my mother smile while it rained. My siblings and I would quietly sit at the table, focused on our homework—solving math problems and writing essays. Sometimes, we'd run outside to help her make the hats.

Those rainy days spent with my mother were truly wonderful. She would whisper to me stories—tales from her childhood, how she met my father, and how she had us. I could listen endlessly. Every time, she added new details to the stories. That’s how I found out that during her pregnancy with me, she craved raw sweet potatoes, eating two or three every day. I was born plump, and my parents nicknamed me 'Sweet Potato'. On those rainy days with her, time felt so meaningful, and the happiness was overwhelming. After making the hats, we would whine until she went into the kitchen to make mashed sweet potatoes or pumpkin soup with black beans. The chilly, rainy air and holding a bowl of soup or mashed sweet potatoes felt so satisfying. We'd eat until we couldn't eat another bite. That dish is what I remember most on rainy days.

On lighter rainy days, my mother would wear a raincoat and hat to go to the fields. During this time, she planted seeds for vegetables—mustard greens, water spinach, bok choy, and bitter greens. She meticulously took care of the plants, pulling out tiny weeds. Vegetables were like her close companions. As they grew, she would harvest them to cook or bundle them up to sell. Each bundle earned about 500 to 1000 VND. In this way, she worked tirelessly to save money to pay for my siblings' schooling. She also grew chrysanthemums in front of the house. Her flowers bloomed brightly in the autumn, filling the air with a sweet fragrance.

On rainy days, the children from the village school trudged through puddles, their hair soaked by the rain. Every time I crossed the field on my way to school, I shivered from the cold. The dirt path was filled with holes and ruts. I would silently wish for a paved road so that my feet could stay dry and clean. More than twenty years later, that wish has finally come true. The village has been modernized, and my heart feels so joyful.

On rainy nights, I would listen to the croaking of frogs, stirring up a deep yearning inside me. I would rush into the house, grab a flashlight, and go frog hunting, calling a few friends along. After a few hours, we'd return with baskets full of frogs. Frogs were like the 'wild chicken' of the region, and they tasted delicious. Not long ago, during the rainy season, I called my mother, and she told me that frogs could no longer be heard in the village. The fields had been transformed into factories and warehouses, and the overuse of pesticides had driven away frogs and other creatures. I felt a sharp pang of longing for the days when I could hunt frogs for a delicious meal. That moment is now gone.

The rainy days in the countryside are a series of tender memories. I miss those gentle days of poverty, but they were peaceful and full of love. After years of wandering, I still only remember the rainy days of my hometown. Because that place has left deep, unforgettable memories in my heart.

Essay by NGUYỄN VĂN CHIẾN

In Saigon, during the middle of autumn, the rain falls relentlessly, drumming against rooftops before bursting into a cloud of white dust when it hits the ground. The streets are soaked, and people's hearts seem to grow a little more distant, perhaps because the rain doesn't just fall on the streets but also within the hearts of the people.

For the people who live and work here, they long for days filled only with rain, to experience a moment of peace amidst the frantic pace of the city. But for me, I prefer the clear skies of summer, the sweet warmth of the sun, rather than the cool, damp rains. More than the rain making my heart ache, it is the memories of a girl I loved that summer that fill me with longing.

My first love was a girl who loved to write. She could write anywhere, as long as there was paper and a pen. She wrote about everything—what happened during the day, the little stories she heard. She seemed to adore these stories, and it was clear that the words on the pages meant a lot to her. Sometimes, I would find myself inexplicably jealous of the words she wrote. It turns out, no one is ever truly normal when in love.

Her name was Van. She was a girl full of character, with rebellious shoulder-length hair and eyes that seemed to contain all the energy and innocence of youth—something that no one else in class had.

We met in the early days of high school. I remember that time—there was still a bit of summer sunshine left, a gentle breeze from the coming autumn, and Van's charming presence that made my heart skip a beat.

She was the one who sat next to me for three years of high school. In the beginning, she was a bit of a troublemaker, constantly annoying me with silly questions and saying things I couldn’t quite understand.

- Why do we have to grow up?
- Because it's the law of nature.
- Then why do we have to mature when we grow up?
- Please, don't ask me these silly questions.
- You're so blunt, you know?

Yet, despite everything, I found myself drawn to her quirky yet endearing personality.

I don’t know exactly when I started liking her. Perhaps it was when I found myself frequently visiting her social media page, reading all her posts. Or maybe it was when I caught myself stealing glances at her during breaks or accidentally touching her hand in class.

Over three years of high school, we went through so much together. There were tears, endless laughter, and the foolish sadness of youth. And scattered among it all, were the pages filled with her writing.

In that final summer, Van sent a thousand letters to her first love, each one filled with sweet, tender words brimming with affection. I began to imagine that the one she loved might have been me.

But I couldn't bring myself to read all of those letters because I was afraid they weren't meant for me. I was afraid that the person she truly loved was someone else.

So, I continued to stand by her as a friend, watching as time passed. I kept hiding my feelings, even if it meant walking against the wind, even if it meant going against my heart. For me, happiness was just seeing her smile, knowing that she was carefree and content, just like those days of youth.

And then one day, she told me she was leaving, and it hit me how foolish I had been all along.

- Khánh, Van is leaving to study abroad.
- Oh, will she be gone for long?
- Yes, for a long time, six years… Is there anything you want to say to her?
- Actually… never mind, Van, take care.
- Can I ask you something, Khánh?
- Sure, go ahead.
- After three years together, have you never felt anything for me?
- Van…
- For three years, I never stopped liking you. I probably liked you from the very first glance. Those years, I wonder if there was anywhere I didn’t write your name. On the desk, on the books, even on the last letter of the thousand I wrote three years ago—your name was everywhere. And maybe, you…
- I… I like you too. If I ask you to stay, would you?
- Sorry, Khánh, I can’t stay. Three years was enough time to fall for you, but three years is also enough time to forget someone.
- Oh… Well, Van, take care. I’ve got my answer now.

That summer, Van sent a thousand letters to her first love, and I admired the author of those sweet words. But those same letters also made me miss out on a whole part of my youth. It turns out the person I had always envied was actually me.

Some things, when missed, are missed forever. Perhaps Van and I were both foolish, both of us in love yet thinking it was one-sided. Or maybe I was the only fool, too scared to speak up, too blind to see how much Van loved me. Yes, I was truly a fool.

That day, the sky began to change to autumn, with the rain coming and going. The day Van left the city, Saigon gained another hopelessly in love fool. The city lost a sweet girl, and the rain still kept falling… endlessly on the streets.

Hiền Hiền

Perhaps it was the strangest rain of the year! What kind of rain is this that feels like dust? My colleague gazed dreamily out the window and exclaimed just that. Indeed, it was a strange kind of rain, one that only January brings. People joke that it’s a ‘specialty’ of January.

I love this drizzle! I love it as much as I would love a lover! Without this misty rain, January would lose all its charm. Those days in January, sitting by the window with a warm teapot, reading my favorite book, and watching the misty rain—there is no greater pleasure. Before my eyes, the drizzle floats delicately, as if it were millions of tiny sparkling beads. My friend has a more imaginative way of describing it, saying the drizzle is like the thin veil of a shy sixteen-year-old girl. Suddenly, my heart swells with nostalgia for my school days, remembering the high school girls in white ao dai walking through the January drizzle, their dresses fluttering in the soft, cool breeze. Everyone looked like angels! These innocent, carefree angels laughing and playing, arms wide to catch the drizzle, only for it to vanish in the air.

The drizzle of January lingers in the heart, bringing silent, nameless memories that can hardly be described. I walk into the rain with my head uncovered, letting the droplets settle in my hair, on my clothes, and even on my eyelashes. Strangely, I feel at peace in this misty rain. When I'm tired, I return to it, even if the memories are only tiny drops, fading away. My time living in the city often leads me to dream of my childhood home, where in the early months of the year, the drizzle would gently fall, and my mother and I would head to the fields to plant seeds. She would sow black beans, sesame, and pumpkin seeds. January is the season for sowing. Farmers like my mother eagerly await this month. And the drizzle is like a miraculous messenger, waking the seeds to sprout, connecting the earth with the sky. Under the misty rain, the fields appear endlessly lush and green. In my dreams, I hear the sound of the drizzle in my hometown, like a sweet melody, echoing in peaceful harmony. The fields, the mountains, all painted in a serene blue.

The January drizzle reminds me of the person who once shared this season with me. The mustard fields, still yellow with late blooms, and I holding your hand in the soft rain, whispering sweet words, exchanging a warm kiss. The scent of mustard flowers mixed with the delicate fragrance of spring, all blending into the unforgettable sweetness of love. That was my first love. You sang with a pure voice: “Fresh green sprouts, shimmering raindrops of spring, and in your sparkling eyes, words of love trembling…” My heart melted in the warmth of spring, amidst the misty January rain. So many seasons of drizzle have passed, the old scenery still lingers in my mind, but the one I loved has not returned. I tell myself that youth, whether joyful or sorrowful, is a time worth remembering and cherishing. I live in the present, not holding grudges, living simply, gently moving forward into the next seasons of spring.

That evening, back at my rented room, I overheard a familiar melody—a song from musician Viet Hung—“January rain outside the street, like mist, like smoke, like a dream drifting in the sky.” This made my heart yearn even more. The January drizzle is always like this! Gentle. Dreamy. Like mist. Like smoke. Yet, it brings a sense of longing, a sense of peace...

Đào Thanh Tùng

The rain continues to fall relentlessly, day and night, even though the weather has just begun to shift into fall. Waking up, I catch sight of a few light drops of rain still lingering in the morning. Suddenly, I feel an unexpected sense of calm, as though the earth and sky have conspired to make me slow down.

The rainy days always feel vast and endless, with an empty street that is long and drenched. The rain hits the ground in a rhythmic pattern, each drop rushing along the wall before splashing and sinking into the earth. Perhaps it's this rain that soothes the soul, bringing relief after days of heat. It isn’t cold like winter, nor is it unsettling like the arrival of spring. Instead, it flows quietly, without pause or question.

I remember when I used to enjoy the rain. During this very season, the children from the poor village would come together to play, soaking in the rain and laughing joyfully. Our clothes would be soaked, raindrops would sting our eyes and noses, but the sound of children’s laughter would push aside the heavy concerns of adults. My mother would warn us to stop playing in the rain, but the storm would always be a backdrop to our childhood memories.

As I grew older, the rain of my childhood transformed into a more wistful kind of rain, one that made me feel deeply—aware of my emotions, of longing for someone. Perhaps it was the influence of romantic tales, or the gentle, hidden letters in notebooks that accompanied dreams in the falling rain. Those emotions, which once seemed dormant, returned once more. I miss that tender, serene feeling of those days when love was new. I miss the stories we haven't told in a while, the parts of myself I haven't revisited, the people I haven’t seen, the memories I thought I had forgotten.

Some say that rain is the sound of the heart, the cry, the scream of someone lost. It’s no longer the carefree laughter of childhood beneath the rain, nor the romantic hues of love. Now, the rain feels like an accomplice, hiding tears with its downpour. Life forces one to ‘grow up’ too quickly, sometimes, and it is only through the rain and the tears that fall with it that we can release the pain. Does the rain of today differ from that of the past? Or is it just that I have changed so much that I no longer relate to the rain in the same way?

Another new day arrives with the sudden showers of the season. The rain falls in soft drips, one after another, both day and night. It seems as if the rain brings with it a quiet sadness, a sense of desolation. Perhaps it’s the rain, or the lack of sunshine. Somewhere in an endless stretch of memories, I still recall unnamed nostalgia...

Hoàng Nhung

I met her on a rainy summer afternoon. It was when the last train of the day arrived at the small station. She was a final-year student from a university in Hanoi, and during our conversations, she told me countless stories about rain.

She said: Rain brings both a chill to the air and many emotions to the heart, it stretches the feeling of longing and washes away the worries and anxieties.

I found myself asking her: Among all the rainy seasons, which one do you like best? With her messy hair and a carefree smile, she answered. Her favorite was the summer rain, the first downpour of the season that came swiftly and left just as quickly. Her childhood was filled with summer showers, and she loved the little raindrop bubbles that floated along the streets. As children, we would fold paper boats and let them float along the water.

Years passed, and the day she graduated arrived. I went to see her off at the station, on yet another rainy afternoon. The raindrops were messy, hasty, and they mixed with both of us as we walked slowly, letting our spirits drift with the floating raindrops. The cool breeze blew through her hair, through mine, and the sad leaves fluttered away. The train whistle sounded in the distance, and the train slowly stopped at the station. A long white mist rose like clouds, and the city seemed to hold its breath. I had no choice but to hold her tiny hand, whispering, 'The rain and you will make me miss you so much…'

She must have cried. The tears rolled down her cheeks like raindrops. The train left the station, carrying her away to some distant horizon. I stood in the rain, the yellow glow of the streetlights surrounding me. Right now, I wish I could say goodbye again, to see her figure once more on that rainy farewell day. A song from somewhere echoed through the night, filled with melancholy: 'One summer evening, I went to the station to greet the person leaving and coming back. The old train returned and brought to me the one I had lost…' And: 'I met you one night by chance. The station was empty, and the rain still fell outside. My love for you was yet unspoken…'

The melody of the song continued playing, its sad words reaching deep into my heart. I wondered, do I feel sorrow? Sorrow? I returned to my daily life, filled with worries and struggles. There were moments when I thought I had forgotten, but in reality, the memories of the rain and her were still buried deep in my heart. Often, when I face myself, I see her standing at the station in the rain that afternoon. Perhaps, somewhere far away, she no longer remembers me. But for me, some years passed, leaving behind traces of sadness, while others left deep impressions. I still return to the station on rainy afternoons by the café, immersing myself in silence with songs inspired by the poetry of Nguyễn Tất Nhiên:

'Better to be like the raindrop shattering on a stone statue'

'Better to be like the raindrop drying on the stone statue'

'Better to have something than nothing'

'Better to have something than nothing…'

I miss the rain. I miss her. I miss the songs about rain in Trịnh's music—so beautiful, so sad, filled with longing: 'This afternoon, it's still raining, why don't you come back... 'The afternoon waits for the rain to pass.'

The café drops its rain, or is it my own tears falling within my consciousness? The music plays gently, echoing: 'The sky is still making rain, the rain falls endlessly, my fingers are filled with sadness…' I've heard the song she loved many times on Sunday afternoons far from home. 'Hearing the rain here makes me remember the rain from far away. The rain falls inside me, each tiny drop…'

I feel like a bird, soaring through the rain to remember a distant memory that has faded into the past. I wish you well on your journey, hoping you encounter much happiness as I once dreamed. 'Go to sleep now, my love, let me sing you to sleep…' These lyrics from Trịnh's song bring me back to that station, back to that moment.

Đinh Tiến Hải

The summer has truly arrived, without a doubt. This afternoon, the orchestra of cicadas plays their heartfelt tune, their song echoing through the air. Summer bursts with vibrant color, especially the fiery red of blooming flamboyant flowers.

During these days, my soul is stirred, 'heated' by the lively energy that only summer can bring among the four seasons of spring, summer, fall, and winter. Yet, there are moments when my heart calms, soothed as if nourished by the unexpected summer rain.

Some say that summer is a season of vibrant hues. The most mentioned color is yellow—the golden hue of sunlight that stretches across the roads, then meanders over fields of ripening rice. The summer sun isn’t gentle; it’s intense, sometimes even capricious, making the air thick and stifling. After days of scorching heat, the earth seems to breathe a sigh of relief, gifting the world with a refreshing downpour. The children in the village call it the sacred rain.

The sky, once clear and vast, suddenly darkens with clouds. The wind blows in from nowhere, bringing a coolness to the yard and the blazing road, making the trees sway. Thunder rumbles in the distance, lightning splits the sky. Then the rain arrives. At first, the raindrops are sparse, tapping lightly on the ground. But soon, the rain grows heavier, pouring down in sheets, creating a thick white curtain outside. The drops fall from the tree branches, from the roof, and scatter across the ground, forming streams that rush into ponds, rivers, and drainage ditches. The sudden rain brings joy to everything it touches. The grapefruit tree in front of the house, with its round fruits, swings gently, as though it’s never been so refreshed. The pink bushes in the yard smile and shake off the water droplets, showing off their beauty. The tabby cat, who usually hides from the heat, now curls up in the kitchen ashes, watching the rain fall with bright, joyful eyes. Everything here seems to have been given a second life by the rain.

It’s been a long time since such a heavy rain has come. This sacred rain fulfills the longing of both people and nature. Eventually, the rain lightens, the drops spread out, and it stops altogether. The sky clears, with blue clouds floating by. The dusty roads have been washed clean. The children run back out, eager to play again, this time under the cool atmosphere the rain has brought. Vehicles resume their journey on the road. Life returns to its usual rhythm.

The rain brings different emotions to each person. For me, my feelings are hard to explain—joy, sadness, and a bit of confusion. The rain takes me back to my fond memories of my mother. I remember when I was young, whenever a storm arrived, my mother and I would rush to save the rice from getting wet. By the time the rain came, we had always finished our task. Although exhausted, with sweat soaking through our clothes, we would breathe a sigh of relief. I would happily hold out my hands to catch the raindrops, feeling the coolness spread across my palms. The summer rain would soothe my soul.

Each time it rains, I find myself looking off into the distance, my thoughts wandering. In the midst of this endless sadness, I imagine my mother, thin and frail, walking along the road with a rain-soaked cloth draped over her. She used to come and take care of my child so I could work, no matter how stormy the weather. The memories of those days seem as fresh as if they happened yesterday.

My mother is no longer here, and all that remains are the sweet memories of her. Every time the rain falls, I take a quiet moment to myself. I sit and watch the rain, lost in thoughts of my late mother.

NGUYỄN THANH THỦY