Top 10 Best Essays on Spring

When the snow-white blossoms of the pear tree bloom in the garden on a crisp spring morning, it's a sign that spring has arrived in my village. I was born in a remote Thai village in Son La province. The small stilt houses resemble mushrooms growing from the ground. Morning. The wind blows through the mountain crevices, and Êm heads to the market for the Lunar New Year. Mist drapes over the tall peaks, and wherever Êm walks, the mist shatters, soaking into the skin, prickling... I follow Êm, carrying a small basket. The dog, Dot, lets out a thin mist with every breath, running ahead, stopping to mark a spot with a quick leg lift. The cold wind seeps through our thin clothes, biting the skin. Visiting the market, especially the last market of the year, fills me with an indescribable joy. At home, when night falls, I often look towards the town Êm mentioned as “the town that never sleeps.” It glows all night. As Tết approaches, the glow stretches wider. I often wonder, how can people sleep with such light at night? The glow gets clearer as the night deepens, as if the villagers had scattered the stars across the sky! It’s strange! I carry this question throughout my childhood... By the time we arrive at the market, the mist has disappeared, and the sunlight shines, soft and golden, like honey, covering everything in a warm spring glow. Stalls selling knives, decorative papers for the Nêu tree, sandals, oil, salt, and corn wine fill the market. The most crowded stall is the one selling 'thắng cố' (horse meat stew), where thick smoke rises from a large pot, accompanied by quiet murmurs of satisfaction. The aroma of cardamom, Sichuan pepper, and corn wine mingles with the smoke from the firewood underneath the pot, creating an intoxicating scent. Loud chopping sounds, and the cheerful mixture of laughter and the sharp sound of tobacco pipes fills the air. The people in my village are as close as family. At the Tết market, friends meet, and whether they are familiar or strangers, they share a drink of corn wine. There's only one Tết market every year, so the men leave their knives and hoes behind, and the women forget their looms. No one laughs at them! A man who goes to the market without drinking wine and meeting friends is like trying to move a boulder to separate people from one another. We shake hands firmly and ask about the Tết celebration. If the Tết feast is large, we rejoice together. We invite each other to visit during the new year to drink the new corn wine and share a bite of the delicious fatty pork. Êm buys ingredients for black rice cakes, colorful paper for the Nêu tree, a bunch of red chopsticks, salt, and oil, and even buys me a new pair of sandals. The spring sun stretches across the slope back to my village, the sky as clear as a child's gaze, and the sun, as golden as someone spreading corn all over the forest... I silently thank the sunlight as I listen to the bamboo shoots pushing through the soil. Preparing the house for the New Year is a meticulous task for the women. Êm carefully sweeps away the cobwebs from the rafters (above the kitchen). – Sweep but don't let the rice and corn spill out the front door, don't let the beans go out the back, don't sweep health away from the stairs, and don't sweep good words and thoughts out the gate. – Sweep away only misfortune, let illness and bad luck be carried away by the wind, sweep away all evil, sending it far down the Mã River, never to return... The kitchen is the most important place in the Thai home. After Ải (father) carefully cleans the altar, Êm is the one who sweeps the kitchen. In our village, there are two kitchens: one is the guest kitchen (where we host guests and elders) and the other is for cooking and everyday use. Women are not allowed to sit in the guest kitchen. On New Year's Eve, it's crucial to keep the fire burning. Êm carefully covers the ashes to ensure the warmth stays through the night. The rafters are stained brown by the smoke, and the scent of burnt rice mingles with the soothing aroma of incense. Years of Tết have passed. Êm still maintains the kitchen's warmth like this. The smell of sticky rice fills the air, and outside, the wind howls like wolves in the mountains, only to be thrown back. In the middle of the kitchen, the fire remains warm, with two logs touching but not quite catching fire. On the last day of the year, there is the hair-washing ceremony for all the women in the village. I don't know when the custom of washing hair with rice water started, but it leaves everyone’s hair smooth and shiny. The ceremony to invite back the soul is performed by the shaman for each person in the household on New Year’s Eve. "Invite the soul back in front, behind, and on both sides of the body. Tie a string on the wrist to keep the soul from wandering and ensure health for the coming year." The ceremony is performed with respect and warmth after the last meal of the year. The altar offerings are prepared with care: a chicken raised by Ải, grilled fish, sour fish, sticky rice, black and white rice cakes, new clothes, and silver rings, all offered to the house spirits, praying for a prosperous year. The New Year's Eve offering is watched over by Ải all night, keeping the incense burning. On the first morning, the aroma of sticky rice fills the air. Êm wakes up early. When I see Êm smile, it's more beautiful than the white pear blossoms outside. Together, Êm and I take a long tube to collect water from the source. The cold wind still bites in the highlands, sharp like a blade, ready to cut through the skin with every gust. But we continue on, despite the wind that blows across the yard and underneath the floor. The purple horse chews grass slowly, its hooves clopping. The pear flowers bloom, white as snow, and the flowers of the ban tree gently stir, awaiting tomorrow's spring. I follow Êm, my nose bright red. The birds chirp distantly, sometimes closer, sometimes further away. The stream is still flowing well this year, enough for women to wash clothes, for girls to rinse their feet, for the rice to stay warm, and for fish to remain unharmed. The spring season is almost here, Êm says. But I still feel the cold! The spring chill lingers, like a sleepy girl who refuses to wake up... On the first day of the year, we fetch water. We pour it into the empty water jar beneath the floor. We pray for a prosperous and warm year. On the first day of Tết, everyone gathers around the fire, listening to Êm and Grandma share the good teachings, the customs of our people. We eat new rice by the warm fire. On the second day of Tết, the person who is in harmony with Ải will be the first to climb the seven steps into the house. – Oh, congratulations on the new year! – May money flow in like water through the front door, and horses and goats fill the back! May the fields be full of grain, and silver be piled high! Congratulations! Congratulations! Everyone laughs, their hearts full! The new corn wine is poured into cups, the grilled beef smells divine, sticky rice is delicious, and the grilled fish is hot and fresh. Our bellies are full with joy! Ải and I visit other houses in the village to wish them a Happy New Year: – Wishing you health, abundant corn and rice, and for men to love their wives and women to love their husbands! In the pear garden, the dew drops are plump, clinging to the buds that are just beginning to open... On the afternoon of the second day of Tết, spring has flooded the village. The women bring more firewood for the night to be warmer, the men stagger with the effects of alcohol, adjusting their shirts before heading to the dance. The girl, her cheeks as red as ripe apples, doesn’t need to eat anymore, for the joy has filled her belly. The boys, wearing new clothes, grin to themselves. Êm doesn’t let me go to the dance. Êm says I have to be fifteen to attend! How strange! Dẻn and Thao are only thirteen, and they get to go! But I’m not angry. I sit by the fire, eating the ginger candy Êm made, sweet and spicy. We dance to pray for a bountiful harvest, for many animals, and for prosperity this year. The boys try to stand next to the girls they like, and the girls' cheeks flush red, feeling shy. It's funny! The boys' hands stay tightly locked. – After Tết, I’ll ask Ải Êm to visit the neighbor’s house to buy good seeds for our farm! – No, the seeds are still too young! – It’s okay! The seeds will grow well in good soil! – No, they’re not ready yet! The girl pulls her hand away from her friend, running out of the dance circle. The boy follows... By the time Ải and Êm return home, it's nearly midnight. I hear the sound of water being poured to wash the feet under the floor. – Aren’t you asleep yet? Ải rubs his hands together, warming them by the fire. Êm still smiles. I feel like Êm brings with her the warmth of the spring dance, the night filled with the scent of new beginnings. After Tết, the festivals like throwing the con (ball) and tug-of-war will continue until the end of the first lunar month. Spring rain will soften the earth, and the grass in the valley will turn green again. The horses and goats will grow fat, and the water will flow into the troughs. The faces of children like me will become smooth, and we will walk the familiar rocky paths to school to learn our letters. The plum flowers and ban flowers will bloom white. The spring of my memories is pure and sweet, like a fairytale. No matter how many times I speak of it, it is never enough. Spring in my village, though poor, is so beautiful. I can see it now, smiling as January begins.

When the sweet spring sunshine bathes the blooming flowers, and people dressed in festive attire stroll the busy streets, the migrating birds far from home long for the warmth and comfort of their homeland. Memories of a cherished past flood the heart...

3. Springtime with mother

The spring weather arrived, the sun gently lit up, and the green buds of trees brightened the landscape. A few light nighttime showers drifted in the air, barely enough to wet anyone's clothes, the rain felt more like mist floating across the sky. The spring of nature and the spring of life have both passed, as time continued to flow and turn. I pondered within myself whether I was truly happy or if it was just a lingering sense of nostalgia. During Tet, I returned to my maternal home, to the old house filled with its own quiet memories. The green iron gate had rusted, stained by the passage of years. Back then, my mother had to scrimp and save, even selling pigs, to prepare for Tet, while Uncle Hưởng, a welder, replaced the old bamboo gate with a sturdy iron one. Our house was poor, with nothing but a fragile bamboo gate and the cúc tần flowers swaying in the cold wind, still green despite the winter chill. When the new gate was installed, at the age of ten, the house felt more protected. We played jump rope in the spring, and the boys peered through the gate, their eyes gleaming with innocent joy. Knowing Tet was approaching, my mother would ride her bicycle during the quieter farming months to gather scrap metal from surrounding villages. One day, she brought home what she called a 'singing gift'—a second-hand black and white TV. I was thrilled because while others had new TVs, we now had an old one to watch. The antenna was mounted on a bamboo pole at the edge of the porch, aimed westward toward the setting sun, and the reception was surprisingly clear. That evening, our family gathered to share dinner and watch spring-themed music programs. My heart was filled with excitement, and I thought to myself, 'I need to eat quickly so I can run and show Tình that we now have a TV!' Just that simple joy was enough to make my heart leap with delight. Even many years later, as I grew older, I still remembered that moment, realizing that the joy of childhood was simple yet lasting. In the days leading up to Tet, my mother would work in the fields, making sure to water the young rice to protect them from the cold. I would stand beside her, playing with the yellow mustard flowers that bloomed in late winter. The mustard flowers, bright as the sun, bloomed despite the cold, adding golden warmth to the barren fields. My mother would say that the soil had been prepared with enough sun and rain, and it was now ready for planting the next crop. The young rice, sprouted in winter, would rely on the rare spring rains to grow and mature by summer, yielding a bountiful harvest. Winter was full of hidden hopes, silently weaving the seasons together, allowing spring to bloom anew. My mother and the other farmers smiled, their voices lively in the warm winter breeze. The pile of scrap metal my mother collected was my treasure chest of toys. For my mother, it was savings for the upcoming Tet celebration. The children in the neighborhood would gather, patching up a broken plastic doll. Huyền’s house was nearby, and my mother gave her younger brother a broken tricycle. Though the pedals were missing, we didn’t let that ruin our fun. We pushed the tricycle around for Tú to sit in, laughing with joy. I loved reading old books, and I came across a story about bats—intelligent creatures with sensitive ears. I read a small, tattered book called 'The Journey of the Five Aliolis Brothers,' even by the dim light of a flickering oil lamp during power outages, imagining myself on an adventurous journey through a mysterious bat cave. When my mother sold the scrap metal and earned some money, she would ride her bike to the market to buy dong leaves and dried bamboo shoots. She would boil the leaves, hang them to dry, and prepare to wrap the rice cakes. I would stand nearby, inhaling the delicious aroma of the leaves, which seemed to carry the scent of spring. In the yard, under the cool gray sky, we wore warm coats and recited nursery rhymes while holding hands. 'Five, ten, fifteen, twenty'—we played hide and seek. My mother soaked the sticky rice, ground the mung beans, and prepared the ingredients for the square rice cakes. She tied them tightly with string and placed them in a pot over a hot fire. The smell of Tet was in the warm aroma of the fire, the cold grayness of the late winter afternoon, and the soft pink of balloons rising into the sky as the neighborhood children laughed with glee. It was also the feeling when I looked at the altar, where the incense burned, and my grandmother’s smiling face in the photo. My mother gently wiped the glass frame, as if speaking to my grandmother from the past. Many years have passed, and my mother’s hair is no longer as youthful, and her hands now show the marks of time. I grew up, passing through moments of sadness, but I always returned to my mother's loving whispers. She would tell me that life flows on, and no one can measure the sadness waiting for spring. But as long as we live, we must look forward to the future, just like the sunlight that gently knocks on the door at dawn. I understood my mother’s words and cherished the hardships and triumphs of life. The beginning of the year is special; I return to sit with my mother, reminiscing about the spring stories of the past.

The last days of the year may feel slow for some, yet hurried for others. Some wish to hold on to past Tet memories, while others eagerly await the bright future ahead. I know that 'the elderly need memories as the young need the future.' Yet, we all need spring to feel nostalgia and hope, to live with passion.

In December, the air begins to fill with fragrances from the house and streets, rising with the first gentle breezes of the morning. Outside the door, the first rose bloomed, bathed in the sweet coolness of the morning dew after being carefully tended. With such joy, even the mossy steps and patches of grass are filled with warmth, beautifying life.

It is no surprise that flowers and plants are often mentioned when spring arrives. The year is filled with weariness, busy days, and worries. Now, it is time for everyone to pause, to enjoy the peacefulness of the trees, flowers, and nature, and also to reorganize their lives. Spring is the beginning of new things, and where there is greenery, the soul of humanity expands and naturally finds peace.

Could it be that spring arrives from the eyes waiting for one another? Parents await the return of their children, grandparents wait for their grandchildren to bring laughter into the home. Thus, spring is called the 'Tet of reunion.' The winter clothes have almost all been packed away, stored in trunks as we bid farewell to the cold season. On some afternoons, you can see someone in the alley busily hanging curtains to dry under the sunny sky, while nearby, the gate and walls are being scrubbed and painted. The scent of lime and smoke rises, mingling with the pungent aroma of pickled onions and garlic. This is the life at home...

Life passes quietly. The more we live, the more we often ask ourselves: Is there anything eternal in this world? Yes! The early mornings spent sipping tea with father, the laughter of mother in the soft breeze of the evening—these are irreplaceable. The only thing that compels us to treasure these moments is spring, for though spring returns, the age of our parents will never go back. I suddenly realize that even the love we have for our parents takes time to learn and appreciate. Thinking of the young people who have to spend Tet away from home, in pursuit of their future, I feel a pang of empathy.

Spring is so dear, how can one fully express all the feelings it brings? When the streets warm up, it is also when the sweet scent of spring fills the heart. The year may be long or the months may stretch, but we only live once. So why not embrace these new moments with the most peaceful and calm attitude? No one would dare to take away the tranquility of spring, I believe that.

We are eagerly awaiting the sweetness of Tet reunion: warmth with family, carefree moments among flowers and grass. Every spring that passes adds to the treasure of memories. And in the future, when we are no longer young, we will still feel the warmth of spring in our hearts. With the new year come new dreams, new sparks, and we, the people, are bound to spring to believe in the things that once seemed like mere fairy tales.

Nature has gifted us with the four seasons: Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter, each bringing a vibrant burst of colors. Yet, it seems Spring holds a special place in the hearts of many. Perhaps that’s why so many beautiful words are reserved for Spring. It’s the season of youth, of warmth and joy, a time when the heart is full and emotions run high. It is a time for sweet, tender moments.

For me, Spring brings something even more extraordinary! It’s in the miracle that starts with the eucalyptus forest behind my house. No one would have guessed that, after Winter’s cold winds stripped the trees bare, the first hints of Spring would breathe life into them once again. Birds, returning from their migration, fill the air with cheerful songs. Even someone like me, who loves to sleep in, can’t resist the allure of Spring’s beauty and rises early to savor the crisp morning air. Spring quietly arrives, scattering warm rays of sunlight along the porch, invoking memories of my grandmother’s tear-filled gaze, mourning her son who never returned from the war. Mother cleans the yard and prepares to welcome her children home. Spring bursts forth in every embrace, in every tear of longing that soaks into mother’s shoulder. The scent of new sunlight mingles with the faint aroma of incense, filling the home as family members return, slowly pulling their suitcases to embrace the new season.

Spring brings Tet, and Tet weaves memories that remain forever in our hearts, no matter our station in life. As we grow older, every Tet stirs up feelings of nostalgia. I remember holding onto my mother’s sleeve at the local Tet market, or watching my father carry a small bundle of Tet cake on his shoulder, joyfully strolling through the neighborhood. The new clothes mother bought with the money from selling a few chickens—so simple, yet it always made my heart flutter with happiness. In Spring, Tet feels even more cherished, as though it is wrapped in extra love and care. That simple, warm moment is something I find hard to experience again.

If Tet didn’t exist, we would probably get caught up in the daily grind, leaving little time for family during Spring. But Spring works its miracle. It brings families together in warmth and love. On the last day of the old year, children help their parents with small household tasks, tidying the home and the yard. They clean the incense burner on the altar and dust off the tea set. They seal the chicken coop to protect it from the cold. I often wish time would slow down when I think back to these moments. A year passes in over three hundred days, yet how often do we get to enjoy such moments with our loved ones? Sitting together, preparing food for father, feeling the light drizzle, my heart is at peace, letting go of the stresses of the past year and the weariness of the daily grind.

As the clock strikes midnight, phone calls and messages flood in, binding us with love. Without Spring, without Tet, these emotions might never surface, even for the most reserved individuals. New Year’s wishes overflow with love and peace, filling the air with goodwill. Messages, full of affection, carry a sweetness as if we had never been angry, never hurt each other, never felt jealousy or resentment.

The miracle of Spring is in every moment, in every act of love, in every shared feeling and the boundless kindness of humanity. Spring brings peace and joy to our hearts, filling us with vitality and hope for a brighter future.

Quyen Van

I have a habit of sitting in quiet reflection during the moments after the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve. It’s a time for me to review the things I have achieved, and those left undone from the previous year, while also contemplating the plans and resolutions I hope to carry out in the year ahead. The first morning of Spring always stirs many thoughts within me, which is why I always prepare myself to embrace the new season with a calm and peaceful mind.

After nearly 30 years of waking up and quietly soaking in the first Spring mornings, it was the first time I witnessed a Spring dawn enveloped in fog in the Central Highlands of Vietnam. Perhaps it was because of the light rain that fell on the last day of the old year, in the cool breeze that resembled the Spring rains of the North. The Central Highlands is known for its distinct seasons, with the rains and dry spells clearly separated, so seeing rain during the dry season is quite rare. This Spring, the country also welcomed a “strange” Tet. As the pandemic complicated matters, many families had to adjust their Tet celebrations to adapt to the new situation. Tet, a time for family reunions, became, for many, a time for safety. Many old traditions were altered. Many chose to send Tet wishes via phone calls and messages instead of gathering in large groups. A unique Tet was shared through photos, each one capturing a special, yet distant, celebration.

The streets were quiet on this early Spring morning. I truly enjoy these peaceful mornings. Everyone I see seems relaxed, dressed neatly and elegantly. Men wear suits, some even add a cravat, women wear their Ao Dai, and children don new clothes. Families who have lost loved ones visit the cemetery on the first day of the new year to offer incense before heading to the temple. The Vietnamese people live by a simple but profound philosophy: “Fallen leaves return to their roots.” Regardless of whether one is wealthy or poor, they ensure that on the last day of the year, a proper meal is prepared to invite their ancestors to celebrate Tet. It is a time for family reunions. And no matter how far we roam throughout the year, on Tet, the Vietnamese always return home to be with their loved ones, sharing those warm, home-cooked meals.

When I see elderly women dressed in traditional clothing heading to the temple, I am reminded of my grandmother. As a child, I would accompany her to the temple on the first day of the year. She was bent with age, her hair white, and her mouth always chewing betel nut. She would hold my hand as we walked along the lush, green paths, with the soft drizzle of Spring rain falling gently. She took me to a world I found both familiar and strange. Now, she has passed, but her betel nut vines still curl around the areca palm in the Spring morning. My father picks the best betel leaves and fruits to place on the fruit tray for Tet. I don’t know if my grandmother will join us for Tet, but like every Vietnamese person, I believe that our ancestors simply move to another world, never truly leaving us.

I walk along the outskirts of the town. The old Pơlang trees bloom with vibrant red flowers every Spring, reaching up toward the clear skies of the highlands. Golden Mai trees, brought from the mountains and planted in front of homes, are also in full bloom. On the hillside, the white coffee flowers blanket the basalt soil, promising a fruitful harvest. The new green buds of plants seem to wake up, joining the vibrant colors of Spring.

Spring often marks the beginning of new hopes. During these first days of Spring, the most anticipated wish is that the world will soon control the pandemic, allowing everyone to return to their regular routines and to embrace the simple joys that the pandemic forced us to change. This Tet was unforgettable for many, including me. Although I couldn’t return home to be with family or share a warm meal together, we all wished each other the best as Spring arrived. Time moves forward, flowers bloom, the sun shines bright, and Spring continues to fill the world with its vitality. So, I always hold on to the belief that brighter days await on the other side of Spring.

Young Writer Dao An Duyen

The last days of the year in my house felt nothing out of the ordinary. While other families busied themselves with shopping for Tết and preparing their homes to welcome the new Spring, my family remained scattered in our own separate corners. My mother worked tirelessly from dawn till dusk at the family restaurant, while my siblings and I continued with our homework, set to turn it in after Tết. Meanwhile, my father was still away, with no plans to reunite with us for the upcoming holiday. Tết is a time for reunion, but for me, it felt like just another long break with no special meaning.

– This year, we’ll buy a branch of peach blossoms, a few Tết sweets, but nothing too much, okay?

My mother’s voice was calm, as she jotted down numbers in the ledger, reminding me gently. On the 27th of Tết, life in our house carried on as usual. It wasn’t until the 28th that my mother would finally take time off from her work to care for the family. My siblings and I helped tidy up the house, and life continued simply and steadily ever since my father left. There were times I wished my father would never return to disrupt the peaceful life of our little family. At other times, I thought my mother and I could find happiness in the smallest things, and that the man of the house was only important if he could be a reliable support. Sadly, my father had lost that role long ago.

As I scrubbed pots and pans, memories of the day my father left flooded my mind. It was a cold winter evening, the wind biting at the air. My mother was driving us, with my father beside her, and I sat behind, gripping the handlebars of the motorbike. I had no tears left to cry for the painful events that had been repeating. My father had once again fallen into old patterns, crushing the fragile hopes that had begun to grow in my mother’s heart.

– If you can, please don’t come back! Leave us in peace!

The three of us fell off the motorbike on the road. My mother cried, her face drenched with tears, while I brushed dust off my scraped knee, quickly standing up to help her, set the bike right, and take the lead in driving us home. Those were the last words I said to my father before he left. Even after that, when my father occasionally called, asking about us, I never answered the phone. I knew that the wound in me would only grow wider the more I resisted facing it. Those days my father was gone were also the days just before Tết in a certain year. He left to a place far enough to restart his life, and although it was painful, I only wished for him to find peace and relief from the hardships he’d caused.

2. On the 28th of Tết, my mother took my younger sibling and me to the market. At 22 years old, I was no longer excited about buying new clothes or sweets as I had been when I was younger. I was able to work part-time, saving a little each month to buy things I needed. My mother told me to go with my younger brother and help pick out things for him. My brother, who was in the eighth grade, loved our father but never showed it to me. He still thought I hated him, and if he expressed his feelings, I would hate him too.

– It’s almost Tết, and no one wants new clothes. What’s wrong with you kids?

My mother said as she guided my younger brother through the market. Despite working hard all year, raising us alone without my father, she still tried her best to ensure that my siblings and I didn’t miss out on anything. She kept the tradition of buying us new clothes for Tết, hoping that our home would feel full of prosperity. I agreed to go with her to the market to pick out clothes for my brother. When I saw him trying on clothes that weren’t his school uniform, I realized how much he had grown. He was no longer the little child, but now a young man of the family. I smiled and patted him when I saw him shyly trying on new clothes. He looked just like our father—his smile, the way he tossed his hair back, even his gait reminded me of him. As I thought about it, I wondered if my father had bought any new clothes for himself.

In the late afternoon, my mother and I bought the essentials for Tết. She always made sure everything was prepared well before the new year so that we could visit relatives and celebrate without worrying about food or cooking. As we walked around the market, picking up meat, dong leaves for wrapping, and admiring peach blossom branches, I absentmindedly touched a pale pink flower bud and asked my mother.

– Mom, do you think dad will come back for Tết this year?

My mother, like my younger brother, rarely talked about my father in front of me. Everyone knew I was haunted by the times my father had caused us pain. So, it had become a habit for everyone to avoid mentioning him. When I asked about him and his plans for the holiday, my mother looked at me in surprise. She gently replied.

– No matter what, he’s still your father. Don’t blame him, okay?

I walked ahead silently. The wounds inside me had healed over time, leaving only faint scars that the years had covered up. Seeing other families reunited and happy made me feel a pang of sadness. My family had struggled to rely on one another, but it was even harder for my father, who had to rely solely on himself. I no longer blamed him—it's been a long time since I did. Now, I only worried about him. However, I still hadn’t learned to express my feelings openly.

On the 29th of Tết, my mother told us to put on the new clothes she had bought for us and join her for a trip. As I sat in the taxi, I had a strange sense that something was about to happen. Ever since my mother had received a call from my father, I had noticed a smile on her face. I overheard my mother’s colleague telling me that she had been in a good mood, smiling constantly after the phone call. I shrugged. It seemed my father was coming home!

When my father returned, he was different from what I had imagined. I greeted him warmly, helping him with his suitcase, trying to act like a grown-up 22-year-old daughter. I asked about his well-being, noticing the changes in him—his graying hair, high cheekbones, and weathered skin. He must have gone through a lot while far away. The time had etched deep marks on his once sturdy figure. As we sat in the taxi to head home, hearing my father’s familiar voice asking about my mother and brother, I felt a lump in my throat. I missed him!

When he arrived, he tidied up the house, bringing life back to a once desolate home. He took care of the garden and joined my mother in the kitchen to prepare meals. I curiously asked him for cooking tips, and together we spent time cooking while my mother watched. We even made bánh chưng and prepared pickled onions for Tết.

Just a few days before Tết, I hadn’t noticed the subtle changes in the air. Going to the market with my mother felt like an obligation, and I sighed, dreading the tedious Tết celebrations, feeling like they were just another long break. But when my father came home, everything changed. I could feel the lively excitement of the new Spring filling our house and spilling out into the streets. As I walked through the town, watching people carry peach branches and kumquat trees home, I realized my family was finally having Tết. Our home wasn’t missing the thin frame of my father anymore. My mother’s face glowed with happiness, my younger brother waited eagerly, and I held a deep, unspoken love for my father.

When my father came home, he brought Spring back with him...

Trang Dimble

My father has always kept the habit of planting a pumpkin vine in the garden. He says that pumpkins are easygoing plants, closely tied to the hardships of the farmer, second only to rice in the fields. Perhaps that’s why the pumpkin vines often bear heavy fruit, full of sweet, refreshing flavors that accompany many humble meals. Countless pumpkin vines have been part of my childhood and adulthood. When my father set up the trellis, my mother would pull the weeds, water the plants, and add fertilizer to ensure the pumpkins thrived. By the time January came, we would have plenty to harvest. The pumpkin trellis was placed right in front of the gate, just a few steps from the yard. From the house porch or from the distance on the street, the lush green trellis, with its hanging fruits, swayed in the breeze like children playing on a swing. The sound of the bamboo framework creaking and the children playing their games filled the air. Laughter rang out as we eagerly picked the pumpkins hanging high, reaching up on tiptoe. The warmth of the spring sun couldn’t be contained and cascaded down the trellis, making everything glow. I remember my mother’s figure appearing faintly in the distance as she returned from the market. We rushed to greet her, eager for a treat. I vividly recall her hanging her hat on the bike’s handlebar, then climbing onto a chair with a knife to cut the pumpkin, her loving gaze sweeping over the vine as if to express her gratitude. My father, seated nearby, drank some tea and casually said: "Shrimp whiskers cooked with pumpkin Husband and wife sip, nodding in approval" I replied, "I don’t want shrimp whiskers, I’ll eat the shrimp meat! Or maybe clam soup would be fine.” My mother, slicing the pumpkin, paused and laughed. The love between my parents, which had blossomed from humble beginnings to raising a family, had weathered many storms but remained strong, just like the pumpkin vines. When my father planted pumpkin seeds in the rich, loose soil and watered them, small green shoots began sprouting a few days later. Soon, the vine grew with broad, vibrant leaves, reaching up to the trellis. My father tied bamboo branches to guide the vine’s growth, ensuring that the vine climbed steadily. Each day, my mother watered the pumpkins as she tended the garden. The pumpkin vines became strong and healthy, tightly wrapping around the trellis. Flowers bloomed and were soon followed by small green pumpkins, which gradually grew larger. A few weeks later, they hung heavily from the trellis, calling out for harvest. These pumpkins, nourished by the spring sun and rain, were a beautiful symbol of the season. Under the wide, peaceful sky, they swayed gently in the breeze, absorbing the goodness of the earth. My parents nurtured them with care, and I grew up learning to appreciate the bond of love and care they shared. The pumpkins became a source of joy, sweetness, and comfort for our family, growing every day alongside us. The pumpkin, a simple and humble fruit, became a staple of our meals. Whether boiled, stir-fried, stuffed with meat, or made into a savory soup, pumpkins nourished us. My mother often said that pumpkins helped cool the body and alleviate heat, while my brother found it easier to digest. Later, I learned that pumpkins also supported heart health and slowed aging. This humble vegetable held many hidden benefits. I recall the many moments when my parents returned from the fields exhausted, and a simple bowl of pumpkin soup could refresh them instantly. I remember the days when my brother would bring home fresh clams from the village river or my father would return with fish from the pond, and the kitchen would be filled with the delightful aroma of pumpkin soup. The community, neighbors, and friends often came by to admire the thriving pumpkin vine. My mother would share the fruits, receiving thanks in return. I still remember the fear I felt when a sudden storm damaged the trellis, leaving the vines tangled and some pumpkins fallen. My father quickly repaired the structure, and my mother carefully tended to the damaged plants. In time, the pumpkins regained their strength, growing fresh leaves and new fruits. As the harvest season drew to a close, the pumpkin vines began to dry out. My father carefully saved some ripe pumpkins to dry in the sun for next year’s seeds. Those seeds would eventually sprout, grow, and bear fruit once more, just as they had for generations. I wanted to call the pumpkin vine in our yard the "happiness trellis." True happiness often begins with simple, loving gestures. Even now, I visit my parents during the spring, collecting herbs from the garden. The pumpkins hang gracefully, just within reach. My father, now older, bends slightly with age but still tends the garden with the same dedication. He and my mother have devoted their lives to nurturing us, and their love continues to flourish, just like the pumpkin vine that has been a part of our lives. The taste of pumpkin soup still lingers in my memory, filled with love, care, and nurturing. The hands of my mother and father continue to guide me, and I cherish the simple, beautiful happiness that the pumpkin vine represents in our family. Mộc Nhiên

The gentle arrival of spring brings with it the warmth of young sunlight, sweeping away the lingering chill of winter. A light mist hangs delicately over the hills and fields, like threads weaving across the landscape. The rain falls softly, almost dream-like, soaking the young soil and awakening the bitter herb sprouts that have lain dormant through the cold months. Slowly, they stretch and push through the earth, tender green buds peeking up to greet the sky. Watching them glisten with raindrops, I find myself reminiscing about the bitter herbs from my past, recalling the bittersweet soup my mother made with love during my childhood. In my hometown, spring brings a burst of wild greens in a riot of colors. Tiny clumps of amaranth grow with red and green leaves, offering sweet and nourishing soups. Delicate purslane with its soft green leaves and stems adorns the fields, while the tiny fishbone herbs crawl around the riverbanks. Yet, the most resilient and enduring of all the greens is the bitter herb. Its roots quietly spread deep underground, weaving through stones and earth, gathering every drop of nutrients to bring forth tender, dark green shoots year-round. In the old days, my village was like many others, full of hardship and scarcity. My small mountain village sat nestled at the foot of towering limestone cliffs, shrouded in mist and clouds year-round. The rugged, winding road passed through our humble homes, and the nearest hospital was miles away. With few medicines available, bitter herbs were our family's go-to remedy. My mother grew a small patch of them by our house, and every day, she would have us kids help water them so the patch remained lush and vibrant. The bitter herbs in her garden were not only for daily meals, but also for healing both our family and the neighboring villagers. We children were lively and playful, constantly getting into mischief. We often escaped from our parents, chasing the sun, playing mock battles, and getting ourselves scraped, bruised, and feverish. When we were sick, my mother would rush to the garden, pick the bitter herbs, and heat them with a bit of rice flour to press onto our wounds and treat our fevers. Though many years have passed, I still can’t forget the image of my mother sitting by the dim oil lamp, watching over her sick children, and the warmth I felt when resting my head on her lap, feeling the gentle heat of her hands through the herbal compress. The winters in the mountains were harsh and unrelenting. During cold spells, the frost hung thick in the air, covering the mountainsides in white. The trees withered and died under the freezing conditions, but the bitter herb remained evergreen, stubbornly growing even in the frost. The tiny sprouts pushed through the cold soil and crept into the corners of the wooden house. My grandmother and mother would harvest these delicate shoots, slice them thin, and sauté them with a bit of fat and a few eggs. The taste was initially bitter and strong, but as I finished, a sweet, pleasant flavor would linger on my tongue. The bitter herb soup was not for everyone, but once you tried it, you became hooked, savoring its unique taste more with each meal. It was known to improve eyesight in the elderly, strengthen the legs of women, and make the cheeks of children rosy. My father used to say, "If you're from the mountains, you must know the bitter herb." My father returned from the army with a worn backpack and hidden wounds in his chest. I remember the times when rain or cold would bring pain to his old wounds, making him restless, unable to sleep or eat. During those moments, my mother would quietly pluck a chicken from the yard, prepare it with a handful of bitter herbs from our garden, add a bit of green beans and glutinous rice, and steam it slowly. By the time the house was filled with the scent of the herbs, she would help my father sit up and patiently feed him the soup. It was the love in that bitter herb chicken soup that helped him endure the pain and survive. In the afternoons, when my mother made the bathwater for the family, she would always add a handful of bitter herbs along with other leaves like pomelo and lemongrass. She would say, "Bathing in bitter herb water will refresh you and help prevent sickness." Thanks to my mother's herbal baths, our wooden house always smelled fresh and inviting. My five siblings and I grew up strong, healthy, and agile, rarely falling ill and rarely needing modern medicine. Later in life, when my mother suddenly passed away from a severe illness, my father was lost in grief for months. His hair, once graying, turned completely white. I knew that half of his heart and soul had gone with her. There is no pain greater than losing a life partner. Sometimes, my siblings and I would find him standing alone in the garden where my mother had once tended to her bitter herbs, perhaps missing the soup she had made for him. He longed for the warmth and love she had given him all those years. The bitter herbs continued to grow, their scent still lingering in the air, but only those left behind could truly understand the depth of the loss. Spring came again. The rain would fall unexpectedly, leaving behind drops of cool water on the tender shoots of the bitter herb. These green sprouts stirred a deep longing in me, and I could almost see my mother's figure hunched over in the garden, tending to her plants. I yearned for the days of old when I could rest my head on her lap and inhale the familiar, soothing aroma of the herbs she so lovingly grew.

My mother is a humble farmer, whose life has always been closely tied to the fields. Whenever I think of her, the image of her rushing up the hill near our farmland comes to mind. She walks so swiftly, as though her bare feet barely touch the ground. Her small frame is dressed in worn-out work clothes, the color faded by years of exposure to the sun and rain, and no matter the season, she always wears a conical hat on her head. Since I can remember, the division of labor in our household has been quite clear. After returning from six years in Cambodia's war zone, my father, weakened by illness, could no longer do hard physical labor. He mostly stayed at home, grinding rice. Despite her small size, my mother was strong and unwavering, always leaving the house before dawn and returning when the sun was at its highest. After lunch, she'd rush off again. During the short winter days, when the sun wasn't as fierce as in summer, she would often pack rice with sesame salt or salted fish and stay outside on the hill, avoiding the wasted time of coming back home. For seventy years, my mother never learned to ride a bicycle or motorbike—whether it was a nearby field or a distant plot, she walked. As I grew up, on rare days off, I would help my mother with her work, riding her on my bike or motorbike. Even with her helmet on, she still carried her beloved conical hat. There was a time when I had to rush outside on a sunny day, perhaps to turn the rice on the drying ground, and I hesitated for a moment before putting on her hat. The strap of the hat, whether soaked or dried and rough, was soaked with the salty sweat she had accumulated. Made from thin strands of fabric, the strap was once pink and purple, but now it blended with the greyish tint of the hat's leaves, carrying a distinct sour and salty scent—a scent that belonged to my mother. That familiar hat wasn't just a shield from the sun and rain; it held all the sweat and captured countless quiet moments of my mother's life. Over the years, this silent song of her life continues to stir in me emotions that are both simple and heartwarming yet unexpectedly new. That hat symbolized a life of hardship and care. It accompanied my mother through every step, crossing the rickety bridge to the poor market by the river. Her bent back was hidden behind a basket, with only the conical hat bobbing up and down in rhythm. The pineapples she carried in her basket glowed golden, releasing a sweet fragrance that filled the market, while she silently bore the heartache, hiding the tears that welled up behind the brim. For eighteen months, she tended to the pineapples, gathering each drop of sweat to nurture them, only to be met with pitifully low offers at the market. The hat shielded my mother from the scorching sun as she harvested rice in the sweltering summer heat, and it kept her dry in the light winter rains as she planted rice seedlings in the biting cold. The countless times when tears mixed with sweat, soaking into the hat's strap, marked the struggle she endured. The pineapples, scorched by the sun, carried the pain of my mother's weathered hands, her skin etched with the scars from the thorns. On the first day of Tết, when the rhythm of daily life slowed down and the children in the neighborhood eagerly went out to play, my mother quietly donned her hat and went to open the barn to take the cows up the hill. I once naively thought that, at her age, people no longer felt the need to enjoy leisure, especially on holidays. But my mother would always say, "In this heat, the grass will dry up," and so she would rush to cut it. And when the rain drizzled, she would happily tell me, "This is the best time to fertilize the pineapples," and would cheerfully carry a basket of fertilizer, walking through the rows of pineapples. Only on days of heavy rain would she stay at home. These were the moments when my mother would take out her sewing kit, mending holes in my worn-out pants, replacing buttons, or removing thorns from her hands. The rainy days were also when she would carefully repair her "golden" hat. She would reinforce the edges with new fabric, patch up any tears. It seemed that the hat understood my mother's love and care, as it lasted for many years. It was only when the edges were worn thin, the leaves began to peel, and it could no longer protect her in the fields that she would retire it. The old hat would then be repurposed to cover jars of pickles or to be placed on a scarecrow in the field. There were times when I wished my mother were like the mothers of some other kids in the neighborhood. They worked on the plantation, received health benefits, and still had time for leisure. But their lives were different. They weren't always rushing around with so many tasks to complete. Their clothes were newer, and their lives less burdened. My mother, on the other hand, constantly worked, planting pineapples, cassava, and corn to save money to build our house, buy a rice mill, or purchase cows and buffaloes. As we grew, she told me she planted more pineapples so that we could go to university. When we all graduated and started working, she bought each of us a motorbike, because who would want to struggle on a bicycle for over ten kilometers? She even repaired the house and paid for the medical bills of two elderly bodies that had endured years of hardship. As we grew older, more independent, and proud, I suddenly realized how many hats had been worn through the years, marking each season of my mother's life. My mother once shared with me a special day in her life. Her wedding to my father was simple—there was no grand feast, no makeup for the bride, no new clothes—just some peanuts, a bowl of green tea, and the blessings of the elders in her production team. From then on, whenever I went to a wedding in the village, seeing a new bride shyly holding her white conical hat, I would picture my own mother in that role on her wedding day. My mother, with her rosy cheeks, thick black hair, and shining under the brim of a pristine conical hat, must have dreamed of a happy life just like any bride would. Then came the children, my father went to war, and one day returned, pale and weak from malaria, burdened by the weight of life. My mother's world slowly shrank, focusing only on the rice bowl and our education. She was like the conical hat that spread wide to shelter us, guiding us through our difficult childhood, providing us with warmth and love, even in the face of scarcity. Under that hat, we grew up, learned, dreamed, and followed our hopes. And one day, we realized just how much love and sacrifice had been held in that humble hat. After more than seventy seasons of hardships, my mother's hat, now faded and tattered, no longer has the strength to withstand the sun and rain in the fields. As I watch her hair blend into the gray sky on a cold winter afternoon, I am overcome with emotion... This morning, I took my mother to the market. The familiar market by the river still bustles with life. The clear blue stream reflects the joyful people crossing the bridge. The Tết market is lively, with a symphony of voices and music. As we passed by the familiar hat stall, my mother chose a simple, modest conical hat. Holding it in her hands, she walked slowly through the morning air, full of spring energy and excitement. The conical hat seemed to glow, pure and radiant, once more.