Top 10 Best Summer Essays

Those who have been away from their homeland for a long time can surely recall countless moments when they sat alone, deep in nostalgia for the place they left behind. Perhaps it’s the winding roads of the countryside, filled with memories of both joy and sorrow as they walked to school.

It might be the yearning for a humble, quiet village where, on sleepless nights, the sound of folk songs echoed under the moonlight. Or maybe it’s a fleeting fragrance from a cluster of wild flowers, roasted yams, or ears of corn from long ago. But one memory that anyone who grew up in a Vietnamese rural village and moved away will always carry is that of the vast fields of rice and crops, constantly changing with the seasons—especially the summer fields, which represented a three-month break from school for the children.

It’s been over ten years since I last walked through the fields. Why did it take so long? After finishing high school, I joined the military. Then, after returning to civilian life, I moved south for my studies. When I returned home, I would pass by the fields every day on my way to work, but never did I stop to truly experience those cherished memories.

Then, the pandemic crept into our lives. In some ways, it forced us to slow down, to appreciate the beauty surrounding us. I took a walk through the fields on the same narrow paths from my youth. The villages of Buom, Ri, Vang, and A had changed so much!

Suddenly, I remembered my childhood, when the sound of cicadas brought an air of melancholy, and when the delicate petals of the flame trees fell on the schoolyard. We would daydream about the kites soaring high over the endless fields, our laughter echoing in the wind, a sound that was often softened by the gentle evening breeze. Barefoot and carefree, we’d run against the wind, until we looked up and saw only a tiny speck in the sky.

And there were those times spent herding cows, when we’d let the animals enjoy the sweet potatoes and corn of our neighbor’s fields. The return home was always followed by a scolding. In the summer, when the canals ran dry, we’d dig trenches to trap fish and catch snails. Each time we herded the cows home, we’d bring with us baskets full of fish or snails. Over time, these simple acts became a common part of our rural childhood.

Now, the summer fields are eerily quiet, especially with the pandemic keeping people indoors. The fields no longer appear as lush and green as they once were. Perhaps the fields themselves are confused, unable to understand what’s happened. I remember when the fields were always filled with people, even in the hot summer heat. Farmers never seemed to give the land a break. They rotated from planting peanuts and sweet potatoes to sowing sesame seeds and rice.

The fields were green year-round. On the higher ground, people would burn the grass in summer to clear it for sesame planting, and the smoke would drift through the village. In the lowlands, people worked hard to plant rice in time for the summer harvest. These days, crops have changed. Summer fields are now filled with melons. The round, ripe melons are the product of hard work—long nights and early mornings in the fields.

The children today don’t seem as eager to visit the fields as we did in the past. The internet and the pressure of schoolwork are stealing their sense of freedom and innocence. Even during the summer break, my two children spend most of their time studying or laughing at videos on TikTok, Zalo, and Facebook. The virtual world has lured them away from the refreshing fields of nature. And perhaps we, as adults, no longer have the time to show them the beauty of the world outside the screen.

Sadly, many parents seem to have forgotten how to play with their children, how to talk with them, instead leaving them with their smartphones. Fortunately, there are still parents who make the effort to connect with their children, taking them out to the endless fields of the countryside.

One colleague occasionally sends me photos of his kids playing joyfully in the fields, and he tells me those are the best moments of relaxation they share together, immersed in nature. After each afternoon like this, he shares that his children are happier, eat better, and sleep more soundly at night. I can’t help but wish that this summer, more children would “run to” the fields. I hope they will come to love nature more, to detach from the virtual world and embrace the real world. I hope they will cherish every moment of life more deeply.

The countryside has changed over time, but one thing remains unchanged: when the sun sets, the breeze from the fields is still as refreshing as ever, cooling the hearts of those who have been away. Even if you are walking on the fields or working with the farmers, you don’t feel the oppressive heat of the day.

The winds blow constantly, never ceasing. As you walk through this space filled with cool, invigorating air, there’s also a distinctive scent in the air—the scent of familiarity and tranquility. I’m sure that anyone who has left the countryside will long to return, to rest their face against the fields and feel the warmth of the memories they left behind.

I miss my grandparents, who devoted their lives to the land, now gone. I miss my parents, who worked tirelessly in the fields, their backs bent and their hair gray, raising me with love and sacrifice. I remember the little girl and the boy who made my heart race with excitement—their faces are now lost to time. The fields remain unchanged, a timeless space that holds the love of those who left and those who were left behind.

I vividly remember one summer evening when a friend of mine called out for his father under the pale light of the moon. We had just finished rehearsing a performance for the upcoming camp. The boys had secretly planned to “scare” the village’s most beautiful girl. After the performance, we ran more than a mile to hide near her house. As she came out, we jumped out from our hiding spot, causing her to scream for her father. She ran down the narrow path leading to the fields, her voice echoing in the night.

The father came running out, and we all fled in different directions. I, however, was caught while trying to help my friend and was left to face the consequences of our prank. The next few performances, I avoided her. Even during those summer evenings when we would fly kites in the fields, I made sure to avoid crossing paths with her. But deep down, I longed to meet her once again and apologize for what happened.

Finally, on the last summer evening before leaving for military service, I had the chance to meet her. That night, the moon bathed the fields in a soft light, and she sang a sorrowful song as she bid farewell to the young man heading off to war. Years later, as I returned, the fields had changed, but the voice of the girl from that summer still echoed in my heart.

The young man silently hummed the lyrics of that song, “Summer, oh how many summers have passed since I left you, but it feels like just yesterday we were apart. Is the old road still there, with white school uniforms fluttering in the wind? Will I ever see my small love again?”

Now, the summer fields may seem dry and withered from the relentless heat, but when the sun sets or the morning breaks, the breeze still blows cool, filling the heart with warmth. It’s the kind of breeze that touches your soul, making you want to return, even if you’re far away. The summer fields will always whisper their stories—the stories of distant days.

Nguyen Dinh Anh

The first rain of the season has arrived, washing away the oppressive heat that kept the children hiding indoors, seeking the cool air from the air conditioner. The early summer rains have refreshed the sky, and as the drops fall on the flame tree petals, they signal the arrival of summer.

Who hasn’t felt a surge of nostalgia for their school days? Surely, no one can forget those precious moments that shaped our memories. Evidence of this can be found on Zalo, where people post “Summer’s here” with photos of white school uniforms, a conical hat resting on a bicycle basket, and the vivid flame tree petals scattered across the old school yard. Others simply write “Summer is here,” paired with images of petals falling on the weathered school grounds.

In May, the flame trees bloom, and the sound of cicadas fills the air, stirring memories of summers long past—moments of youth that are forever etched in our hearts.

Some might even feel regret, wishing they had been more mischievous or spent more time laughing and playing with their friends, to create even deeper memories of their school years. Now, those carefree days are far behind, and the once-green hair is touched with silver, as everyone gets caught up in their own busy lives. How many summers have passed since we last sat together, reminiscing about the good old days?

Our school years were filled with memories, with three whole months of summer to enjoy the innocence of youth. Today, things are different. Children no longer have the freedom we did. They spend their summer holidays attending English classes and studying for other subjects. Back then, as the fields called to us, the summer sun was hot and the kites flew high, filled with hopes and dreams.

We spent days building makeshift houses, pretending to be our mothers, going to the market, or cooking. We used leaves from the guava and jackfruit trees as currency, counting our imaginary coins while the sounds of cicadas played in the background. Or perhaps it was the first summer trip to the beach, where our little feet left footprints in the sand.

That summer could also be the time we said goodbye to our innocent white uniforms, riding our bikes under the shade of the flame trees with our friends. We exchanged signatures on each other’s uniforms, creating lasting memories in the pages of our notebooks. Oh, how unforgettable those summer memories are!

These moments will never come back, but in life, those emotions can resurface when least expected. Standing at the school gate waiting to pick up your child, listening to the cicadas sing, and watching the flame tree petals drift in the breeze can awaken those cherished memories, filled with love and sweetness.

The first rains of the season fall, and the flame trees burst into vibrant red bloom, giving us a moment to savor the nostalgia of those school years and the summers that will forever remain in our hearts.

Hoai Thuong

Every time the bright red petals of the flame trees burst into bloom, the first summer rains begin to fall, sweeping away the stifling heat and bringing relief. Everything around us seems to sing its own welcome song for the summer. The air is filled with excitement and energy. Of course, we, the children, eagerly await summer so much that we forget about the stress of upcoming exams. Summer arrives, and with it, countless exciting things to look forward to.

The summer symphony begins with the rush of rain. Unlike the dreary monsoon rains in July, the first rains come down with a fierce, refreshing intensity, shaking off the heat from the past months of dry, still days. The rain comes in waves, first heavy, then light, until the clouds gradually disappear, leaving the sky bright and clear again.

After the rain, a new chorus begins to rise in the village. The frogs start croaking loudly, their calls echoing through the night, often continuing until dawn. Next, the crickets join in, celebrating the rain with their high-pitched chirps. The trees seem to rejoice in their own way, shaking off the dust and glistening with the freshness of rainwater, their leaves shimmering in vibrant green. Meanwhile, we children, excited and full of joy, rush outside to join in the “harvest” of the rain’s gifts. The small village comes alive with activity: dogs barking, people calling to each other, and the flashing of flashlight beams as everyone heads to the fields and ponds.

The air is filled with the sound of life as crabs scuttle out from their burrows, eager to catch the first catch of the season. All it takes is a little effort with a flashlight to gather a basket of fresh crabs for a delicious crab soup. Meanwhile, the men head out fishing, with the rain raising the water levels and sending the fish swimming into the fields. In just a few hours, they return with fresh fish to share. The women head out to catch frogs, and the whole village enjoys the bounty of the season, grateful for the rain that brings so much.

The next morning, the market is buzzing with energy. Women sell the fresh fish and frogs caught the night before, and there’s lively chatter as the villagers haggle over prices. The sound of children crying, the calls of street vendors, and the general bustle all come together to create a lively, chaotic soundscape that marks the start of another summer day.

It feels as though the first rain has awakened the entire summer season. The cicadas begin their constant hum from dawn till dusk, and the flame trees burst into full bloom, their bright red petals dotting every corner of the yard, the school yard, and the roadside as if reminding everyone that summer has arrived. We, the students, find ourselves distracted by the sight of the blooming flowers, unable to focus on our end-of-year exam preparations. Instead of discussing exam strategies, we find ourselves talking about the games we can only play during summer – fishing, flying kites, and sometimes, sneaking fruits like mangoes and guavas from the neighbor’s trees. Mischief and fun fill our days.

Personally, I loved nothing more than following my sister to the fields to catch crabs. Under the scorching midday sun, we would eagerly search for crabs in their holes. The bigger the hole, the bigger the crab, and there was something particularly thrilling about uncovering them. I especially loved it when people would pull up dry grass to expose hidden crabs seeking shelter from the heat, making it so easy to collect them. After a day in the fields, covered in dirt and grinning from ear to ear, I’d rush home to show my mother my catch, only to be playfully scolded to take a bath. I’d laugh, my skin dark from the sun, my clothes covered in dirt, but filled with joy from the adventures of the day.

Summer holidays were full of excitement. Whether it was catching crabs, fishing, or flying kites, there was no time to worry about the heat. Our hair, always sun-kissed and golden, and our faces, darkened from the sun, reflected the carefree joy of those days. We challenged each other to ride bikes with one hand, and the winner would get to be carried around the village on their bike. Every time my mother asked me to go out and buy something, I’d use the opportunity to practice riding with one hand, even though it often ended with me falling off and getting scraped up. Those scars were our badges of honor, proof of our wild summer adventures.

Even now, those scars on my knees remind me of a mischievous childhood. Every summer, the flame trees still bloom, the cicadas still sing, and the rain still falls. Summer never changes, but the people who experience it do. And each time summer comes around, seeing those bright red flowers brings back memories of those carefree days of youth.

Vy Vy

I always thought summer would never arrive too quickly, but when it does, it’s always here in the blink of an eye. Some summers pass by, leaving only memories. I can still smell the scent of summer so clearly that sometimes I wish I could wrap myself in it, sleep peacefully for hours, and relive that warmth again. Even now, as I’ve grown older, each summer stirs a nostalgic yearning inside me. Watching the vibrant summer approach, I can’t help but regret the fleeting days of that long-gone summer.

As a child, I loved summer so much that in the final days of school, when the cicadas sang signaling summer’s arrival, and the flame trees burned bright red in the schoolyard, we would scramble to finish the last pages of our notebooks. We’d excitedly pack away our books and look forward to a carefree summer. Back then, summer was a time of complete enjoyment, free from the worry of homework or schoolwork. I remember waking up early, hearing the drumbeats that called us to morning exercise in the community yard, led by older kids. After that, we’d scatter to play countless childhood games: jumping rope, playing marbles, chasing butterflies, catching cicadas, and even pretending to swim by biting onto dragonflies. Sometimes, we’d forget to go home for lunch, too absorbed in chasing the cicadas on the street or stealing unripe mangoes from the neighbor’s yard, dipping them in chili salt. In the evenings, without any planned activities, we’d sneak out to play hide-and-seek or catch grasshoppers, water bugs, and steal young rice from a nearby field. Every day was a new adventure; we always found something fun to do. There were no iPhones or the internet, no screens to bury our faces in. We had to run outside, because anyone stuck indoors would surely be bored.

Summer days were marked by streaks of sunlight, and the sound of cicadas filled the air, harmonizing with the rustling of leaves. We children continued to chase dragonflies, unaware that these carefree summer days were slipping by. Today’s children, however, don’t have the luxury of a full three-month summer. Some are burdened with extra lessons, others attend summer camps, practice skills, or lock themselves away in rooms, eyes glued to their phone screens, without speaking to anyone. I remember last summer when I took my children back to visit our village. They were so thrilled to be surrounded by the wind, sun, and sky, running by the river, picking fragrant lotus flowers, and chasing the mischievous red dragonflies. They were truly happy, having never been so close to nature. They laughed, wore lotus leaves on their heads, and ran around, their joyful voices echoing through the green fields as someone caught fish from the pond.

These rare moments of happiness, being so connected to nature, brought back memories of my own childhood. People and flowers seemed to blend with the earth, pure and innocent, and I suddenly felt guilty for getting caught up in adult responsibilities, for letting my children grow up in a world where school and exams take priority over carefree play. Today’s children are overburdened, having to compete with their peers, study for prestigious schools, and rarely have time to just enjoy summer. Summer no longer feels like a break; it’s filled with extracurricular lessons, endless studying, and the fatigue that comes with it. These children are deprived of true childhood joy, despite having every material need met. Their summers are spent trapped in the hustle and bustle of the city, drowning in screens. Summer is lonely now, a time when families sit in silence, absorbed in their own worlds without connecting with one another.

Watching my children play, I can’t help but wish they could experience summers like we did, filled with wide open spaces, the freedom to run wild, and the purity of nature. I wish they could breathe in the sweet scent of lotus flowers, laugh together in the sunlight. Oh, when will we see those days of pure joy again?

Yến Minh

The heat of June spreads wide, the cicadas sing the same old tune, as they have for as long as anyone can remember. The distant figures seem like mere shadows, as if they were part of the summer horizon. The sun burns fiercely, searing with a heat that feels like a memory, summoning distant recollections of times long past, memories I thought had faded away.

The lychee trees, decades old, heavy with fruit, cast their shadows by the riverbank, beginning their final stage of ripening. Walking through the sweet aroma of lychees carried by the breeze, I hear the song: "The village garden’s red lychee calls for summer, and the cuckoos call in pairs..."*

The sight of the fruit reminds me of the flowers from earlier seasons.

That spring, I visited the garden of a senior finance student, accompanied by a young soldier from the first year of the Military Academy. The fine drizzle of early spring wrapped the world in mist, and the lychee flowers bloomed white, covering the sky. Each tiny cluster of flowers at the ends of branches resembled clusters of white berries, delicate and beautiful, like a dream. The fragrant flowers attracted flocks of butterflies and bees fluttering in search of nectar. The young man and the woman exchanged sweet words under the old lychee tree, promising to meet again when the lychees ripened the following year...

But, like all things, it passed too quickly, like a sudden summer rain that evaporates just as fast... Now, those people are far away, and all I have are memories of that long-ago bloom.

By the beginning of May, the lychees ripen in full abundance. Their bright red color stands out against the sea of green leaves under a vast, endless sky.

The fruit clusters hang close together, like a dense forest. As I walk through the village gate, I see lychees everywhere, hanging in orchards that stretch for miles. The trees spread their branches, casting shadows over the old mossy brick walls, covering the brown-tiled roofs.

As a child, I used to hear the elders in the village tell stories of the legendary lychee tree in Thuy Lam Thanh Ha, known far and wide. Now, the tree is almost two hundred years old. Every season, people flock to visit and pay respects to the legendary Hoang Van Com, who first planted the sacred lychee tree.

In the past, this rare fruit was a royal offering to the emperor and high-ranking officials. It was harvested only once a year. The lychees, plump and rich, have no bitter aftertaste. Beneath the slightly bumpy, deep red skin lies thick, translucent, juicy flesh, and a tiny seed smaller than a chopstick tip. When you bite into the fruit, the sweetness spreads across your tongue, and the fragrance fills your nostrils. Closing your eyes, you savor every moment...

Nowadays, lychees are eaten fresh, but they are also used in various other forms, such as brandy, dried lychees, canned fresh pulp, and juice. Some people even soak them in liquor. Lychees are now exported to countries worldwide, including markets like Japan and the US.

I have passed through childhood, but I still remember how my parents carefully tended each lychee tree, nurturing me as I grew. I’ll never forget the time I overate lychees.

That year, I was in high school. Summer vacation coincided with the lychee and rice harvest seasons.

One early morning, my mother called out:
"Get up early today and finish harvesting the rice for our share!"

I agreed and went straight to the field without eating anything. I wrapped my pants up to my knees, carried a sickle on my shoulder, and felt the sweet sting of the sun. The rice was almost ready, ready to be cut, bundled, and carried back to the house. I dropped the bundles of rice on the ground and adjusted my pants for ease, thinking: "I’ll have some delicious broth for lunch."

My mother was still teaching and hadn’t returned. Feeling thirsty, I went to the rainwater barrel, drank several scoops from the coconut shell. I glanced at the lychee tree heavy with fruit, and hungry, I plucked a large bunch and devoured it.

It was so sweet! I picked another bunch. After finishing, I began to feel dizzy. Then came the nausea and lightheadedness. I barely managed to call out: "Sis... I..." before collapsing by the lychee tree, foam gathering at my lips. My younger sibling ran over and shouted, "Aunt, something’s wrong with my sister!"

My uncle, who worked in a nearby orchard, rushed over and said, "She’s drunk on lychees!"

My uncle squeezed lime juice into my mouth. I vomited up all the lychees I had eaten. That day, I was both sunstruck and drunk on lychees.

My mother had warned me countless times not to eat lychees on an empty stomach.

But I forgot.

The June sun, golden and blazing, warmed the garden, filling the air with the aroma of ripe lychees. The fragrance of the lychees mixed with the sunlight and the wind, drifting across the land. Under the trees, people often set up small shelters to sleep in while watching for ripe fruit. At night, the bats and cuckoos eagerly returned to feast. Hung on the branches were milk cans that would suddenly shake, sending the bats and cuckoos flapping away in panic.

The lychee harvest lasts only a short time. Once the fruit ripens, it must be picked quickly, for one night of rain can cause the skin to crack, and the fruit loses its value.

The lychee tree is the livelihood of many families in my village. Whether the harvest is plentiful or poor, whether the price is high or low, it is always a source of worry for everyone.

...

This afternoon, I walked by the wind-swept river. The scent of ripe lychees floated through the air. Tourist boats passed by, visiting the lychee orchards along the riverbank. They stopped by the legendary lychee tree, the sound of songs and laughter filling the air, blending with the vast waters of the river...

It has been many decades since I left the village. My childhood friend has also settled far away. I still remember my father’s lychee tree, which he planted over forty years ago. Its shadow stretches far, with the tree standing tall at one spot, and the shade falling at another. Sometimes, trees are like people—they lean to one side for a lifetime...

Lê Phương Liên

I often refer to the days of May as the moments that stir memories of a nostalgic summer. I think of the sweat that dripped down my father's back and my mother's shoulders, the years they worked tirelessly in the fields, the muddy hands of the farmers who spent their lives enduring hardships. The sun always felt dry, and the brilliant golden hue of May was accompanied by the blooming flowers of summer along our familiar paths.

As I walk through the summer, my heart stirs with emotion. I see the bright yellow flowers and the soft green grass, the tender leaves glistening in the sunlight, gazing up at summer with wide eyes. As I pass by the old schoolyard, the banian leaves still seem to wait, motionless, as though expecting someone's footsteps. The red flamboyant trees still flame in the corners of the yard, where I used to play with my friends, blending into the symphony of summer's song, carried by the chorus of cicadas. These songs, full of longing, continue to resonate in my soul.

I gently hold the clusters of flowers, their fragrance filling the air, as the mischievous sunlight dances across the scene. The memories of childhood are preserved in the warmth of the sun, which continues to shine gently, even as the years pass. The summer in my homeland is filled with so many vibrant flowers: the sweet fragrance of lotus blossoms in the fields, the pale pink of a lover's lips, the brilliant yellow of the yellow bellflower, and the gentle purple of the flowers in the jacaranda trees, along with the passionate red of the flamboyant trees.

The sunlight of May seems to bind time into wheels, pushing us to revisit the days of old. In those moments, we glimpse the wistfulness in the eyes of the older generation, wearied by years of hard labor, yet still recalling those carefree school years, when the white uniforms fluttered in the wind and bicycle baskets were filled with bouquets of flamboyant flowers, as if they were carrying the entire summer of love. The memories of those days are full of joy, nostalgia, and first loves left behind in the petals of the red flowers.

The sunlight of May spreads across the schoolyard, reaching out to the vast fields, illuminating the golden crops that have been nourished by the earth. The fields are heavy with ripened rice, releasing the sweet, milky fragrance that sustains life. From afar, we can see the smiling faces of the village girls carrying baskets, joyfully singing under the summer sun.

But perhaps, no matter where I go, the sunlight of my homeland is still the most beautiful. Have you ever seen the rivers glistening in the sunlight, the purple water hyacinths blooming across the expanse of water, their colors blending with the shadows of the sun? In these moments, I can almost see my mother’s figure in the distance, amidst the golden fields. And in my homeland, there is an undeniable peace in the gentle morning rays, as if the warmth of summer has been with us forever. It's in the sounds of birds singing joyfully in the morning and their return to the nests as the evening sky turns violet. The young buds quietly break through the soil overnight, and by dawn, they drink in the fresh morning dew before reaching for the warmth of the sun's rays.

And so, the sun silently fills our lives with sweetness, nurturing our desires and dreams. The sunlight is like a gift, offering joy and happiness with every new day. It spreads love, just as the earth nourishes the trees, binding us in a lasting, deep connection. As I walk through the summer, I find myself loving the sunlight of May more and more, cherishing my homeland with greater affection, and remembering the nostalgic summers of the past, forever etched in my heart.

Đăng Nhã

As May arrives, the heat of Saigon settles in. The sun carries a fierce, almost painful warmth that seems to scorch the skin. The golden light streams through the window, a shimmering, transparent hue, as innocent and playful as a child's gaze, untouched by worries.

The streets are beginning to show signs of change, with the purple hues of the Lagerstroemia trees painting memories into the yearbook of students, while the bright yellow clusters of the Cassia fistula droop, signaling the bittersweet end of the school year. The rains have not yet arrived to cleanse the sky… Somewhere, under the shade of ancient trees along the street, the cicadas begin their timeless song. The city is entering summer!

I have spent many Mays in Saigon, each one leaving behind its own unique set of memories as I walk through its streets. Nearly two decades have passed, and the roads, the trees, the winding alleys, and the dusty corners have become familiar. To me, any place I’ve walked is a memory. And I cherish these memories, keeping them close to my heart. Every time I stroll through a street, enter an alley, enjoy a street snack, or unexpectedly come across a cafe at a street corner, I feel a sense of belonging as if I’ve known this place forever. Sometimes, looking at the scenery, I find myself caught between forgotten and cherished memories, forever lingering. Walking through the city in summer stirs a strange nostalgia in me. I feel an urge to revisit memories long past, to return to my student years, filled with dreams of a new future, wrapped in the warmth of the city, letting my yearning fill the space in my heart. Perhaps, the true feeling of connection doesn’t come from outward glamour but from what is deeply within.

Would you like to walk with me through the streets of May, beneath the shade of the trees, letting the breeze scatter dry leaves onto our hair? We could wander amidst the spinning flowers of the mustard plant, collecting tiny yellow-brown windmills, tossing them into the air and laughing joyfully. I’ll take you to some old bookstores hidden in narrow alleys, where we can rummage through shelves and find our favorite books, sharing our laughter when we discover something special. Or we could walk in front of Notre-Dame Cathedral and the City Post Office, bringing a handful of rice to scatter for the pigeons, watching them peck and flap their wings as they take flight. And there’s a café I used to frequent in Thanh Da, let’s stop by, and I’ll show you the corner where I sat, watching the sky and listening to Trinh music. Would you like to stroll the city streets with me like this in May? But remember, under the scorching sun of Saigon in May, if you’re not familiar with this place, find yourself a quiet corner to escape. I think the walk is best in the late afternoon when the sunset paints the city in soft pink hues. Otherwise, the heat may prove too much to handle. For me, the city is where my soul finds comfort, where my heart is warmed by everything that has become a part of me, like blood in my veins. Even when the streets are harsh and the city is moody, like an unresponsive lover, I still love it.

The evening comes, and the streets are bustling with cars, the air thick with dust, as the sun sinks behind rooftops, casting a reddish glow across the sky. If it were years ago, I’d be delighted to watch the cars winding through the streets. But now, I prefer to quietly watch the sunset from my balcony, as the last rays of the day fade into the night sky, and the city lights begin to twinkle peacefully.

In the hustle of daily life, the struggle to make ends meet, the sweat-drenched shirts at rush hour, the weary hands pushing carts late into the night, and the tired faces of workers in poor neighborhoods, Saigon remains the same, welcoming and protective, embracing the lives of its people day after day with infinite compassion. From the moment I first arrived in this city, everything seemed foreign—the faces, the voices, the fast-paced lifestyle—so different from the quiet countryside I came from. But in time, I grew to love this place, like an old friend, becoming part of its pulse. And now, here I am, bound to the city, unable to tell exactly when I fell in love with it. Each passing day brings new hopes and burdens, and I wonder, does the city understand me?

Saigon never truly sleeps. The night doesn’t drown in an abyss of darkness, illuminated instead by streetlights and the mix of smoke and mist. Is it the lights or the city’s soul that keeps it so alive? Or perhaps it’s the restless hearts of Saigon’s people who never find peace in the night? The city always glows with red, green, and yellow, blending into the night with vibrant energy. The city knows there is someone, standing on a balcony each night, gazing at the sky, pouring out their thoughts, and receiving an answer in the form of a distant street vendor’s call. In the quiet of the night, even a single call can stir something deep inside. In the city, everything seems so beautifully hidden, like a secret waiting to be discovered.

Now, close your eyes and walk with me through the streets of May. Keep your eyes closed as I guide you through the forgotten and remembered moments we have yet to share. I will sing the song of May with the cicadas. The song of summer in the city! So that the city can see your smile, my smile, and feel the love in the heart of this beloved place.

Author: Quách Mỹ Kiều

If Spring is soft with its golden rays, gently warming the earth and coaxing flowers to bloom, and Autumn brings a romantic feel with its streets lined with golden leaves fluttering in the pale evening light, while Winter offers a cool, gentle breeze and clouds drifting slowly, pulling our hearts back to nostalgic memories, then Summer arrives, dressed in vibrant hues, enveloped in the warmth of distinct flowers.

When we think of Summer, we think of the fiery red Phoenix flowers ablaze under the golden sun, the dreamy purple of Lagerstroemia flowers, the symphony of cicadas serenading the arrival of the season, the exciting trips to the beach, where the blue sea, white clouds, and golden sun await. Summer is a time for farewells, for longing, and for countless memories. All these elements combine to create a dazzling and colorful Summer.

Summer is also the season of bold sunlight. Unlike the dry, weak rays of Autumn, the sun in Summer is bright and intense, almost pushing all its energy to illuminate and warm everything, breathing new life into everything, making the world vibrant and full of vitality. The young leaves flutter in the sun, like lovers reuniting, the light dancing across the leaves, caressing the soft pink buds and ripe fruits hanging from the trees, making the flowers more fragrant and the fruits sweeter.

There are times when I sit alone, watching the Phoenix flowers gently sway in the breeze, and I wonder if Summer is the season of separation. The unbearable heat often drives people apart, making them seek separate paths. Many couples who shared beautiful love, held hands through Spring and Autumn, and warmed each other's hearts through the cold of Winter, somehow lose each other as soon as Summer arrives.

As Summer arrives, the Phoenix flowers fall in scattered petals beneath the bright sun. Some young girls quietly pick a few petals to press into their notebooks, turning them into little butterflies, which, years later, will remind them of their innocent school days, filled with laughter and memories of chasing each other in the schoolyard, tasting the sourness of early-season fruits, and making the most of their youthful days. In the chaos of life, when we look back at these clear moments, some feel nostalgic, while others smile. But one thing is certain: a person's memories would never be complete without the innocent moments from their school days, when arguments were solved simply by sharing a small candy, holding hands tightly, or exchanging loving glances.

Basking in the sunlight, closing my eyes and listening to the birds singing from the trees, I believe that life will always find a way to blossom again when Summer arrives. What could be more beautiful and peaceful than a bright, clear Summer sky, the sound of a flute guiding storks flying toward the peaceful river? The Summer symphony continues from dusk until late at night. As evening falls, the soft moonlight blankets the garden, and the ripe fruits release their sweet aroma. For children, the most joyful part of Summer is gathering together, playing games, jumping around, and laughing together. My childhood Summers were filled with sneaking out when my parents napped, walking in the hot sun catching crickets, searching for bird nests, digging for potatoes, fishing, or stealing guavas from a neighbor's yard, running away when the neighbor's dog barked at us. For country kids, Summer was a paradise. The riverbank was where we splashed around, forgetting our afternoon naps, and the breezy dike was the perfect spot for singing songs after playing all day. Those simple joys made us yearn for a time when we could relive those carefree days.

On those scorching Summer afternoons, I can't help but laugh when I think back to my childhood. When the heat was unbearable, I would stand right in front of the fan, lift my shirt, and let the cool air soothe my stomach. It was such a refreshing feeling! In moments of joy, I would stand closer to the fan, shout loudly, and listen to my own voice echoing back. The sounds of Summer echoed in the scorching heat. Thinking about Summer, I also miss my grandmother, the nights we spent together lying in the hammock, stargazing and listening to fairy tales before drifting into sleep. Now, she's no longer here, but when I think of Summer and those childhood memories, I smile, grateful for those wonderful Summer days spent with loved ones...

Linh Châu

The early summer in the peaceful countryside glows with the sound of birds singing to greet the dawn. At the end of the road, the slender phoenix tree stretches its branches toward the bright, fiery sun. The bare branches begin to sparkle with tiny, beautiful flashes of red.

Under the clear blue sky, the sound of a kite's flute soars as the birds fly toward the calm river. I press my ear to the gentle breeze and hear the eager whispers of the sun, excited to start a new day...

My childhood echoes through the memories of summer in my grandmother's village. Every summer break, my mother would send me to visit her. In the afternoons, I would quietly wander into my grandmother's garden, observing the bees and butterflies flitting about, the skylarks singing duets, the dragonflies dancing, and the magpies chirping happily. Summer in the countryside played out like a simple melody, filling every corner of the village with joy. The phoenix tree, now decorated with countless lanterns, blazed in red light. Cicadas played their songs from sunset until late at night. The moonlight spread silver across the garden, the ripening fruits exuded their sweet fragrance, and the morning dew decorated the grass with tiny, sparkling droplets. The most joyful games were those of blindfolded tag and hide-and-seek, with children of all ages laughing and teasing each other. Summer moved to the rhythm of children’s footsteps, and the scent of the season bloomed in the dance of little hands, pure and carefree...

I remember the old hammock on my grandmother's porch. Although it was worn out, it was still sturdy. Whenever I visited, my younger cousins would fight over who would sit with me in the hammock. We would swing back and forth, the creaking sound echoing through the dry summer heat.

I grew up in the city, went to school, matured, and eventually joined the army. Each time I passed through the countryside during my travels, the memories of summer at my grandmother’s village would flood back. Now that she is gone, sometimes in my dreams, I still call out: - Grandma!

Mai Hoang Hanh