Top 12 Best Essays Depicting the Grandchild's Perspective on the Poem 'The Firewood' by Bằng Việt (Grade 9)

Every time I pass through the vast, expansive fields of Russia, I find myself thinking of my beloved homeland, Vietnam. Especially during the snowy days, with the cold biting through my thick coat, sitting by the fireplace, I feel an odd sense of familiarity. The warmth from the fire reminds me so much of the fire at my grandmother's house!

I was born during the war, a time when our country was torn apart, a time when our land was trampled under the feet of invaders. My family has a long tradition of patriotism, so from a young age, my parents were often away, serving our country in difficult, dangerous areas. That’s why I was raised by my grandmother from early childhood. I have memories with her that I will never forget, especially the image of her always by the warm, nurturing fire. She would wake up early to light the fire, which would flicker through the morning mist, a flame of love between us. Thinking of that fire makes me feel deep affection for her, and I can never forget her tireless efforts.

I remember back when I was only four years old, in 1945, the year of the devastating famine. I witnessed the famine creeping into families, causing the death of two million people, a tragic outcome of war, a period of suffering for our nation. My father was off serving in the war, while I stayed with my grandmother. She would light the fire to keep the smell of death at bay. Even now, the memory of that smoke stings my nose! It’s a bitter reminder of the painful, impoverished, and deadly years our people endured.

For eight long years, I stayed with my grandmother, helping to light the fire, feeling her warmth and protection. She taught me how to work, and she took care of my education. I remember a summer when the sound of the cuckoo echoed across the distant fields, its cry so heartwrenching, reminding me of the love and longing in my heart. My grandmother would tell me stories from her time in Huế, and I would listen intently, deeply moved by her kind voice. It taught me to love others, to have compassion. I would silently blame the cuckoo for not staying with my grandmother and crying endlessly across those faraway fields.

Life, peaceful in the eyes of a child like me, was unexpectedly shaken one year when the invaders came, leaving memories that are still etched in my heart. They set fire to our village, burning everything to the ground. But my grandmother, strong and loving, was helped by the neighbors to rebuild her small hut from the ashes. I was terrified and cried, asking her if I could write to my parents and have them return to protect us. But she remained steadfast, never losing faith in the fight for our nation's freedom. She urged me not to mention the details of our situation in my letter to my parents, telling me, 'Your father is in the war, still fighting for the country. Don’t talk about anything but our safety.' Then, she would light the fire again, a symbol of her enduring love and hope for our future.

Day by day, the fire continued to burn, symbolizing our shared love, the taste of sweet potatoes, the aroma of freshly steamed rice shared in joy, and the tenderness of a young heart. How extraordinary and sacred – the fire! The fire burned through all circumstances, whether in rain or shine, hunger or war; it always kept burning, never extinguishing for any reason.

The fire is truly sacred and mystical. It is forever intertwined with the image of my beloved grandmother, and it stands as a symbol of hope, representing the victory of my people, a flame that will never be extinguished, ever warm with love. Now, as I live far away, having received the knowledge of humanity, I find that there are many fires, many joys in the world, but none compare to the fire of my grandmother, none equal the happiness of the days spent with her. Oh, grandmother!

Now, as I live in a foreign land, far from home, I long for my country, for my grandmother. The fireplace flickers before my eyes, but there is no smoke like that from my grandmother's fire. Oh, grandmother, I miss the smell of the smoke, the image of the fire that was always by our side. I just want to remind you, 'Have you lit the fire this morning yet?'

It was 1963 in Russia. Outside, the snow fell in thick, white layers. The streets were empty, with not a soul in sight. Occasionally, the distant sound of a horse-drawn carriage could be heard in the night. All the houses had their lights off, with only a few dim yellow glimmers that would suddenly flicker out. I couldn't sleep. The cold winter air pierced through me, and I found myself thinking of the warm days of my childhood. As I sat by the crackling fireplace, memories of my grandmother and the loving warmth of her fire flooded back.

Half-closed eyes, I recalled when I was four years old. It was the time of hunger, deprivation, and widespread suffering. The national treasury barely had any funds. This dark period was called 'The Great Famine of 1945' in Vietnam. The relentless hunger drained the strength of so many people, and the death toll from starvation far exceeded that of disease. Those who survived wandered like shadows, their bodies weak and their spirits broken. My father was away driving a tired, skinny horse, while I stayed with my grandmother. In the suffocating smoke of the fire, my childhood seemed to vanish. My memories are marked by the smell of the stove, more than the whimsical fairy tales or romantic skies that should have colored my youth. A sharp, bitter scent still lingers in my nostrils, and I can feel tears welling up. The bitter taste of my childhood still haunts me, and the memories of my grandmother stir a deep sense of sorrow.

The French colonizers returned to invade our country, and my parents had to go fight on the frontlines. They entrusted me to my grandmother's care. During this time, my grandmother and I spent eight years together lighting the fire. Eight years is not a long time in a lifetime, but for me, those years felt endless because it was just the two of us, relying on each other. My grandmother would hold me close by the fire and tell me stories from her time in Huế. On those hot summer days, the cuckoo would call from the distant fields, its cry full of longing and urgency. Whenever I heard it, I would stand in silence for hours, asking the bird, 'Cuckoo, why don’t you come stay with my grandmother instead of calling endlessly from those faraway fields?' My parents were away, so it was my grandmother who took care of me, taught me right from wrong, and provided me with the lessons that shaped my life. Every action of hers was filled with love. It was thanks to her teaching that I am now here at KF University, and I promise to honor her by continuing to study and grow, to make her proud.

The fire blazed fiercely, and I was transported back to the year when invaders burned down our village, leaving nothing but ashes. After we fled, our village returned, looking desolate. Our neighbors helped my grandmother and me rebuild a small hut to shelter us from the elements. Despite all the hardship, my grandmother remained strong. I still remember her words: 'Don’t mention anything to your parents in your letters, just tell them we’re safe.' Back then, I couldn’t understand why she would lie, since she had always taught me to be truthful. But as I grew older, I understood, and it moved me deeply. She bore all the pain and loss herself so that my parents could focus on fighting for our country’s freedom. Her heart was immense, filled with love and sacrifice.

Through all the hardships and the war, it was just the two of us, day in and day out. I loved my grandmother dearly, but I didn’t know how to ease her suffering. Every day, she would light the fire again, nurturing it with her love and hope for the day when we would be reunited with our family, when peace would return. Through a life of struggle, she had always cared for her children and grandchildren. The image of my grandmother, with her silver hair, always by the fire, became a symbol of warmth and love. The fire she tended to filled our tiny hut with warmth and filled my heart with deep affection, evoking the tender emotions of my childhood.

Now, as an adult, having been given the wings of knowledge by my country, I have ventured into the vast world of science and learning. I have discovered so many new things, but I will never forget the image of my grandmother’s fire, the one she would light every morning and evening back home. That fire is the foundation of my life. 'Grandmother, I know you have passed on, and I will never see you again, but your image will always live on like the flame you kindled, burning brightly in my heart, giving me the strength to continue on my journey of knowledge.'

Before I knew it, I had fallen asleep. I dreamed a beautiful dream, where I was once again the boy of those days, and my grandmother appeared, kind, gentle, and full of love, like a fairy in a fairy tale.

For most of us, childhood memories are often the deepest and most lasting. These memories may be tied to the beloved countryside or to the precious years spent in school. These moments, etched into our subconscious, stay with us for a lifetime, never truly fading. For me, too, the memory of my childhood is closely tied to my grandmother and the dark shadow of the famine of 1945, which left an indelible mark on my heart. The image of the stove, like the smell of smoke from my grandmother’s cooking, became a symbol of my love and longing. This stove wasn’t just an object; it was a repository of memories, a symbol of my grandmother’s tireless love. The stove represents more than warmth; it represents a time of struggle, resilience, and love.

From the time I was just four years old, I became accustomed to the scent of the smoke as my grandmother would light the fire. That year was marked by severe famine, and the stove became an irreplaceable presence in my life. Even now, when I think back on those days, a wave of emotion overwhelms me. The stove became a sacred, almost divine symbol, embodying both suffering and love. Despite the harsh conditions of war, my grandmother’s care and love provided me with warmth and strength.

Eight years—a span neither too short nor too long—was enough to kindle within me a burning passion for my grandmother, for her nurturing care, and for the stove that she tended with such devotion. Even in the midst of war, she never let the fire go out. The stove, like my grandmother, was a constant, offering both physical warmth and emotional sustenance. My grandmother would tell me stories, give advice, and take care of me. Through all of the hardship and loss, she managed to keep the fire alive—literally and figuratively. Her words were simple yet filled with so much love and sacrifice. 'Don’t tell your father anything about the hardships we face here. Just say the house is safe,' she would say. Those words were a reflection of her strength and resilience.

My grandmother kept the ritual of lighting the fire each day. This practice lasted a lifetime, and even now, I remember the meals she made for me—simple, yet imbued with so much care and affection. The fire she tended for years symbolized more than survival; it was a symbol of life itself. It ignited not only the stove but also the dreams and hopes of my childhood. My grandmother didn’t just light the stove; she sparked a flame of love, resilience, and unity in my heart. The stove became a lasting symbol of life, family, and national pride. It stood for the enduring power of love, connection, and the survival of the human spirit.

As I reflect on those memories, I realize that the stove and my grandmother together represent the best of Vietnamese women—hardworking, selfless, and loving. Amid the devastation of war, she never wavered in her duties, always lighting the fire to keep the warmth of home alive. Even in the ashes, her spirit endured, much like the fire she kept burning. The stove became a living symbol of resilience, the deep love of a grandmother, and the unbreakable ties that bind us to our roots, to our history, and to our families.

I still remember the poet Nguyễn Duy once wrote:

“When I was young, I went to Na canal to fish,

Held my grandmother's skirt while she went to Bình Lâm market,

Caught sparrows by the ear of the Buddha statue,

And sometimes stole longans from Trần temple.”

It seems that for many children, the carefree years spent with a grandmother are the most cherished and peaceful moments of their lives. Amidst the ebb and flow of time, these simple memories of my grandmother still remain etched in my heart, always taking me back to the tranquil, humble world of my youth. For me, perhaps the most vivid memory is of my grandmother by the stove, the soft flickering flame greeting each morning. This memory has followed me through all the paths of my life, growing stronger as I lived far from home, feeling the bitter winds of the Russian wilderness. In the quiet moments, when I see the smoke rising from faraway homes, an overwhelming wave of longing surges within me, taking me back to her, to the warmth of the stove, to the flavors of my homeland...

Following the thread of these memories, I am transported back to the dark days of hunger during the 1945 famine. My small village, like many others, was trapped in a desperate fight for survival. During those grim times, my father worked tirelessly in the city, but the wages were barely enough for us to survive on. The hunger of that year, which had such a deep impact on the soul of a four-year-old child, is still something I cannot forget. The smoke from my grandmother's stove brought me warmth, comfort, and a sense of security, pushing away the smell of death that hung over our poor village. That simple scent, like a manifestation of my grandmother's deep love, kept me warm in my childhood and, even now, brings tears to my eyes whenever I reflect on it.

The years passed, and as the resistance war began, my parents left to join the revolution, answering the call of the nation. For eight long years, I was cared for by my grandmother, always by her side, always near the stove she tended each day. In those days of my childhood, there was another witness to our lives that I will never forget—the cuckoo bird. Its lonely, yearning cry seemed to express a deep longing for protection and warmth, and it touched my heart deeply. The sound of the cuckoo echoed in the vast emptiness of the countryside, and hearing it made me even more grateful for the love and care I received from my grandmother. It was by the stove that I first heard her share stories of her life in Huế.

My grandmother's life had been full of hardships, and through all her struggles, she shared with me her hopes for a brighter future. It was by that stove that she took care of me, providing every meal, every nap, and teaching me life's first lessons. These lessons, filled with the values of humanity and integrity, became the foundation for all my dreams and aspirations. The warm light of the stove offered me solace during the lonely days without my parents, and my grandmother became the emotional anchor that kept me steady. Life was harsh, constantly testing the strength of the human spirit. Then came the day when the sounds of gunfire and bombs shattered our village. The once peaceful place was reduced to ashes, with every home burned to the ground.

At that moment, I knew my grandmother was holding back her tears and swallowing her pain. Our home was gone, but the strength and resilience she had forged during the many turbulent years never allowed her to give up. She led me through the hard times with unwavering resolve. I realized that the hardships I had just endured could never compare to the pain she had silently carried all these years, her longing for my parents on the battlefield. Yet, thanks to the love and solidarity of our neighbors, my grandmother and I managed to rebuild a small house on the same old land. She reignited in me the will to live and to carry on. I believe that the things lost in the fierce flames of war were reborn in the warmth of her stove. Thus, my childhood was sheltered by her love, through all the years.

As the years passed, I grew up, my dreams taking me far from home, but I could never forget the red flame of the stove in the corner of our home. It was there that I found love and sacrifice, and it was there that my grandmother nurtured my dreams of a new life. If fairy tales are the companions of many a child’s heart, then my grandmother wrote my own fairy tale, set in the real world. In this story, the flickering flame of the stove, her boundless love, the fragrance of rice and cassava, and the essence of home were always present... the place where I truly belonged.

In a distant land of Europe, where the cold winter winds bite, sitting by a crackling fireplace, the warmth of the flames on my face takes me back to the small stove of my childhood, the one that warmed the mornings, and to the figure of my grandmother. The image of the stove glowing in the morning mist, accompanied by the loving figure of my grandmother, fills my heart with an unshakable longing.

I was born in a time of famine, during the struggle against French colonialism. The country was immersed in war and crisis. Life was especially difficult for the farmers. When I was four, natural disasters and droughts ruined the crops, leading to widespread hunger. The cries of the hungry echoed through the village, and death seemed to loom over everyone.

While my parents worked tirelessly to make ends meet, my grandmother stayed at home, taking care of me. My entire childhood was spent by her side. Each time she lit the stove, the warmth from the fire surrounded me. The smoke would sting my eyes, causing tears to flow, but the comfort it provided was irreplaceable. These memories bring a nostalgic sting, especially in moments when I think of those years. My parents joined the revolutionary cause, and I stayed with my grandmother, facing many hardships. Time passed, and the war grew more brutal. My parents could not return. The enemy attacked our village, looting and burning everything in sight, spreading fear and destruction.

The neighbors helped my grandmother rebuild our hut from the ruins, not knowing what the future held. Despite the hardships, my grandmother would always tell me not to mention our troubles in letters to my parents, assuring them that she was still strong. No matter what, she always kept the faith, hoping that my parents would continue their work without worry. The flame she lit in the stove became a symbol of patriotism, hope, and a longing for the future.

When peace finally returned, my parents came back to reunite with us. My grandmother was overjoyed, and tears filled her eyes. Through all the years of hardship, she had never abandoned the habit of waking up early to light the stove. That flame, a part of my childhood, always burned bright. It was a flame that never truly extinguished, always rekindling with intensity. It was as if the fire was telling me to never forget my grandmother’s love and sacrifice, for both her family and the country.

Even as I move forward in life, enjoying better circumstances, I will never forget the image of that stove and the gentle, selfless figure of my grandmother. It is a constant reminder of my responsibility to her, and to my homeland.

Memories of the stove have brought warmth to soothe the chill of winter far from home. The longing for my homeland, for my parents, and my grandmother, never fades. In my mind, I can always see her working tirelessly by the stove. The image of her bent back, stoking the fire until it blazes brightly, filling the small kitchen with warmth. That heat wrapped around us, my grandmother and I, filling our hearts with hope and faith in the brighter days to come.

A stove flickering through the morning mist

A stove exuding warmth and care

How deeply I cherished my grandmother, through every storm and sunny day!...

“I believe that the unity around the stove in Vietnamese families is one of the most sacred and unique aspects of our culture, which inspired me to write such heartfelt verses.” Around the stove, families share their lives, telling tales of hardship, luck, and triumph. The warmth of the family’s hearth is something that can never be replaced. And forever by the stove stands the image of the Vietnamese woman, carrying the essence of our culture. That’s why the image of my grandmother and the stove is so intimate, so loving, and so deeply cherished. My grandmother breathed life into the stove, filling it with affection, responsibility, love, and sacrifice. “I will always remember the sight of my grandmother stoking the fire, battling to get it right, to keep the flame steady. It was truly an art.” The Vietnamese woman is the embodiment of life intertwined with the stove, with its unrelenting warmth and unwavering belief.

“Even today, after all the ups and downs of life, I still cannot forget the image of my grandmother and the fire in her heart. She and the stove are two symbols that have truly shaped my life. Now, everything has changed so much—traditional stoves are no longer essential in our daily lives. They've been replaced by faster, more efficient stoves. The intimate gatherings around the family stove have become rarer. Meals have become less about effort, from lunchboxes to takeout and restaurant meals, yet I still find myself missing the diligent hands of my grandmother preparing every meal back then.”

When I think of my grandmother, I can still smell the smoke that once filled her kitchen. The poet’s nose seems to still sting from the memory. The stove was just a stove, but the soul of the stove has stayed with me throughout the years, and it remains intertwined with my entire poetic life:

Now that I’ve gone far

There’s fire in a hundred homes, joy in every direction

But I never forget to ask:

Has grandmother lit the stove yet, this morning?...

How do I make the smoke dissolve into the wind, fade into the mist, to hide in the trees and sneak into the forest?” It’s that very pain, that toil, those beautiful memories of wartime that no one who lived through it can forget. These are the emotions that later inspire poetry. I recall the deeply human story told by Russian writer Koronenko. On a cold, foggy boat, the ferryman kept encouraging the passengers that there was a light ahead, that they were almost there. But the farther they went, the further the light seemed, never to be reached. It’s a philosophy full of compassion, but with a tinge of nostalgic sorrow. The warmth, which seemed within reach, was not so easy to grasp...

"The older I get, the more I understand the depth of her love

Her skin may dry, but her heart remains as big as ever.

Endlessly patient, she always holds onto hope

Her words grow fewer, yet her love grows deeper."

These lines of poetry are for my beloved grandmother, who, even now as I study far away in Ukraine, I cannot forget. The warmth of her stove, a constant presence in my memories, still fills my heart. As a Vietnamese, no one is unfamiliar with the image of the stove, always ignited with simple materials like firewood, straw, and dry leaves. It burns brightly, flickering and dancing in the early mornings, forever linked with the Vietnamese woman’s tireless love and sacrifices.

My grandmother was no different. With gentle skill and infinite patience, she lit the fire, pouring all her love for her grandchildren into it. When I think of that stove, I feel a deep pang of longing for her, remembering how she weathered the storms of life. The stove not only evokes her love but also stirs up memories of my childhood, including the haunting famine of 1945 that terrorized our nation, a time when hunger ravaged families like mine. My father worked as a horse-drawn cart driver, worn and emaciated, but hunger still clung to him. If not for my grandmother's warm stove, I might not have survived that awful famine. Even now, thinking about it, I still feel the sting in my nose—such vivid memories that blur the line between the past and present, despite the passage of so many years.

The second memory that stays with me is the time of the resistance against the French colonizers. My parents were in the war zones, and my grandmother became both mother and father to me, raising me with her love and wisdom. I stayed with her, learning her ways, sitting by the stove, soaking in her warmth and guidance. The sound of the cuckoo’s call would often remind us of my parents in the distant battlefields. The cuckoo’s cry marked the seasons, but for both of us, it also brought longing and deep yearning. I remember how my grandmother would tell me stories of her time in Hue, her voice filled with nostalgia for the days gone by.

The third haunting memory comes from the period when the enemy came to ravage our village. The flames of destruction rose high, consuming homes and possessions, leaving only ashes. In that moment of loss and grief, my grandmother and I, together with our neighbors, returned to rebuild. I grew quickly during that time, learning to help her construct a new hut from the ruins. The most touching moment came when my grandmother said, "If you write to your father, don’t mention the hardships here. Just tell him the house is safe so he can focus on his work." That was her way—selfless, carrying all the burdens so we could be at peace. My grandmother was truly the backbone that supported the front lines of the resistance, pushing the war effort toward victory. She deserved the title given by Uncle Ho: "Heroic, Unyielding, Loyal, and Capable." She embodied both the traditional and modern beauty of the Vietnamese woman.

Reflecting on those old memories, I find myself pondering the meaning of her life and the image of the stove. The flame she lit each evening symbolized her love, her hope, and the belief she passed on to me. My grandmother was the embodiment of the older generation, keeping the fire alive and passing it on to the next generation. Even after all these years, she still rises early and works tirelessly, enduring all the trials of life. The work she did was so meaningful, instilling in me a deep sense of love, gratitude, and the joy of sharing with others. She awakened in me the dreams and hopes to reach new heights. Oh, how simple, yet sacred, the stove was—representing the purest form of love and devotion!

Now, as I have grown and moved to new horizons where electric stoves and gas burners exist, where the smoke from a thousand chimneys fills the air and the warmth of a hundred homes spreads joy in all directions, one question always lingers in my mind: "Has grandmother lit the stove this morning?" Perhaps the stove—her love—will always burn brightly, supporting those like me who are far from home. It is a symbol of the foundational love that binds families and, by extension, a love for our homeland. How could I ever forget that warmth? It shaped me, made me who I am today. And so, to the younger generation, I urge you to cherish the simplest things, the everyday moments, the love of family, and the deep connections that form the roots of who we are. Cherish your elders, your family, your homeland, and always remember to love others as you would love yourself."

I have been in Russia for four months now, and it is winter here. Every morning, I pull back the curtains of my fifth-floor dorm room to look outside. The snow is falling, blanketing the rooftops of ancient churches, the trees, and the streets. I shiver despite being wrapped in layers of sweaters and a thick coat. In my mind, I picture the stove from home, glowing softly in the early morning mist. The stove, its warmth emanating through the air, casts a flickering shadow of my grandmother on the wall. Oh, how many years have passed, yet the stove, full of love and care, remains forever etched in the memory of the grandchild who is far from home.

My memories unfold like a slow-motion film. At the age of four, I had already become familiar with the smell of smoke. It was 1945, during the horrific famine that claimed the lives of more than two million people. This famine was a consequence of the cruel and inhumane policies of French and Japanese colonial rule in Vietnam at the time. Like many other farming families, my family was starving. My father worked hauling carts for a small wage, yet the money he earned was barely enough to survive. The tragedy and mourning filled the air. People were burning large piles of straw and husks to generate heat to combat the suffocating atmosphere. The village was covered in the smell of smoke. Even now, my nose tingles with that memory, and tears well up in my eyes.

The August Revolution broke out, and the Party, led by President Ho Chi Minh, led the people to drive out the French and Japanese, ending nearly a century of colonial oppression. The Democratic Republic of Vietnam was born, and the provisional government was formed, with President Ho Chi Minh as the first head of state. The whole nation rejoiced in the newfound freedom and independence. But soon after, the French returned to reclaim their colony. The Party and President Ho called upon the entire nation to fight in the long-term resistance against foreign invaders.

For eight years, I stayed with my grandmother while my parents joined the resistance. Every morning and evening, I was by her side in front of the stove. She would gently recount her days spent in Hue, remembering the springtime, and the song of the cuckoo bird that reminded her of our homeland. My parents worked far away and didn’t return. It was just the two of us, and my grandmother poured all her love and care into me, her only grandchild. She was the first person to teach me right from wrong, to teach me how to read and write. I grew up in the safety and warmth of her embrace. Every time I heard the cuckoo's call, I would silently wonder: “Why, cuckoo, do you not stay with grandmother but instead call from distant fields?”

The resistance against the French entered a fierce phase. The French army rampaged through the countryside, looting, burning, and killing. They committed unspeakable atrocities. My village was attacked, and hundreds of homes were burned to the ground. After evacuating, the villagers returned, dragging themselves back to rebuild their homes from the scattered ashes. They helped my grandmother and me construct a small thatched hut in the corner of our garden. She calmly told me, “Your parents are in the resistance, they are busy, so if you write them a letter, remember to tell them everything is fine at home so they don’t worry.” I understood her love and care, and my affection for her grew even deeper. Days passed, and she continued to tend to the stove, holding on to the belief that one day, victory would come, and the family would reunite.

Throughout her life, my grandmother endured hardship and struggle, always caring for others. The image of her—her silver hair, frail body—was inseparable from the glowing stove. The stove, which she carefully kindled, warmed the small hut and soothed my soul, rekindling memories of childhood. Now that I have grown and traveled far, seen many new things, and acquired knowledge, I will never forget the image of that stove and my beloved grandmother who tended it each morning and evening at home. I long to return to her side, to embrace her tightly and whisper, “Grandmother, dear, you are the one who kept the flame of life alive, passing it down to generations of your children and grandchildren.” The image of my beloved grandmother and the stove will remain with me for the rest of my life.

Winter in the Soviet Union is brutally cold, with every household keeping their stoves burning to stay warm. Smoke rises from chimneys, blending with the clouds in the sky. On my way home from school, bundled in my thick coat, as I gaze at the sky, my mind drifts to a distant smoke rising, reminding me of the things I hold dear from back home. It takes me back to the image of my grandmother by the stove, a symbol of my childhood, an image I will carry with me forever.

It's been years since I last returned to Vietnam, my homeland where I was born and raised, yet not a day goes by without me thinking about it, constantly seeking updates on the long struggle of our people. It's not just homesickness, but also concern for my loved ones. I often wonder how my grandmother is doing... I was born during a time when the country was in the throes of war for independence, and I witnessed hardship from a young age. By the time I was four, when I had started to remember things, the most vivid memory I had was the smell of my grandmother's kitchen smoke. It was during those years of famine, when our people were under the crushing boot of invaders. My father, working as a cart driver, would return home with his horse, both weak from lack of food, but somehow, in my memory, the stove at my grandmother’s house never went out, and I never had to suffer hunger. As I grew older, I understood that it was the hard work, sacrifices, and love of my parents, especially my grandmother, who kept the stove burning and the family warm, providing us with enough food and clothing. Thinking about that smoke now, my nose tingles, and I realize that scent will never fade—it is more precious than any foreign fragrance I could encounter.

As I grew older, the nation's struggle intensified. My parents went to the frontlines, leaving me with my grandmother. Those years were marked by the constant call of the cuckoo, haunting my thoughts, making me miss my parents even more. There were no schools in the village, so my grandmother taught me to read and write, to light the stove, and she guided me in everything, teaching me one thing at a time. She would often tell me stories about the time when our family lived in Hue. Though I didn't know much about Hue, it sounded so beautiful and desirable in her words. But I also felt pity for my grandmother every time night fell. Her frail figure cast a shadow on the wall of our hut when the oil lamp was lit. I often thought, if it weren't for me, her back might not have been so bent. And as I listened to the cuckoo call, I wished that it would come here to us, to keep us company, so my grandmother and I wouldn't feel so lonely.

But peace never lasts. One year, the enemy stormed our village, burning homes, looting, and taking people. The small, simple house we had was gone, and neighbors, feeling sorry for my grandmother and me, helped us build a tiny thatched hut to shield us from the rain and sun. I wanted to write a letter to my parents to tell them what had happened, but my grandmother stopped me. “Your father is in the resistance, he has his own work to do. Don’t mention this in the letter. Just tell them that everything is fine at home, so they can focus on the fight without worrying.” So, in the letter, I only expressed my longing for my parents and assured them that everything was peaceful at home. I couldn't understand why my grandmother didn't want me to mention the attack, but as I grew older, I saw the depth of her courage. She didn’t want my parents to worry; she took on the responsibility of keeping the family together so that they could focus on the war and defend our independence. My grandmother believed in our country’s resistance, and she quietly made her sacrifices. I believe that not only my grandmother, but all the grandmothers and mothers of our nation, were as resilient as she was.

Now, as I study in a peaceful land far from home, not a day goes by that I don't think of my homeland and my grandmother. For decades, she has continued to work tirelessly, rising early and tending to the stove. I know from the letters she sends me that she still wakes up early to start the fire. Though she is alone in our village now, she is surrounded by neighbors who share in both joy and sorrow, and she is filled with love. Perhaps every day, as she tends the stove, she is keeping the warmth of my childhood alive, waiting for the day when I will return to sit by the fire and embrace her. That flame is the most sacred and miraculous fire of my life—it represents life and the undying love that will never go out.

Even now, in this distant land, I can never forget the smell of my grandmother’s kitchen, the warmth of her stove. No matter where life takes me, no matter how many other fires burn, no matter how many other joys I experience, my happiness will always lie in the flame that my grandmother started.

“The older eyes grow wiser, filled with love

Though skin may dry, the heart remains open

Patient and hopeful, my grandmother never gives up

Her words grow fewer, yet her love never fades.”

These are the lines I wish to dedicate to my beloved grandmother. I am currently a law student in Russia. It is now September, and as the weather turns colder, memories of my grandmother and the stove we once tended together flood my mind. That stove was a cornerstone of my childhood.

Growing up with my grandmother, lighting the stove together was a difficult but essential task. At the age of four, I had already grown familiar with the scent of smoke. I remember vividly the year 1945, when famine struck my family and many others across Vietnam. The sight of people working desperately for food still pains me to this day. The death toll from hunger kept rising. My father worked as a cart driver, and even though his horse was as weak as him from hunger, the poverty seemed relentless.

Then came the years of the anti-colonial struggle against the French. My parents joined the resistance, and I stayed with my grandmother. For eight years, I grew up with her, lighting the stove each day. That stove became a part of my soul, and the sharp smell of smoke still makes me tear up. She took on the role of both parents, raising me with love and care, teaching me how to work, study, and guiding me with a mother’s devotion.

Each morning, she prepared food for me to eat. She worked tirelessly, never complaining. Life had dealt her many hardships, and I didn’t want to add to her burdens. I grew up under her loving care, and sometimes, when she had a moment of rest, she would tell me stories. She always reminded me: “You must study hard to build the country, or else it will always remain poor.”

On rainy days, when the firewood got wet, lighting the stove became an exhausting challenge. Whenever the cuckoo called across the fields, she would share tales of Hue with me. Her voice was so vivid, every word etched deeply in my heart. The cuckoo's call always made us both miss my parents, who were away in the war. As I grew older, I felt a deeper sense of love for my grandmother and an even greater reluctance to leave home, knowing the struggles she faced alone.

One year, the enemy ravaged our village, burning homes and destroying everything. My grandmother and I, along with our neighbors, suffered great loss. The image of those dark days haunted my childhood. After the destruction, my neighbors and I worked to rebuild a small hut to survive. I suggested to my grandmother, “Why don’t I write to Mom and Dad? Maybe they can come back and help you.” But she gently refused, saying, “Your parents are at the war front, and they have enough to deal with. Just tell them that everything at home is fine.”

I understood my grandmother’s reasoning, and I respected her wishes. Her sacrifice and strength filled me with admiration. She bore all the burdens alone, leaving me to focus on my studies while she took care of the household. In a way, she was like a hero to me, filled with boundless love and selflessness. Whenever there was something I could do, I helped her—feeding the chickens, gathering firewood, picking vegetables. Even small tasks helped ease her workload. On nights when her hands were sore from hard work, I would massage them to make her feel more comfortable.

Day after day, I continued to light the stove with my grandmother. That fire represented not only warmth but also her love and determination. Decades have passed, yet she still rises early, enduring the elements and caring for me. Her tasks may seem simple, but I will always be deeply grateful for them—whether it was cooking sweet potatoes or sharing the kindness of our community. The stove endured the trials of her life, and to me, it became a symbol of the sacred and beautiful moments we shared.

The stove also represents my grandmother’s warm love, tied to the hardships and struggles she faced. Each day, as she lit the fire, she was also lighting up my life and everyone around her. She was not just the keeper of the stove; she was the one who passed on the flame of hope and belief to us all.

Now, living in a world of gas stoves and electric ranges, I often think of the saying: “With a hundred ships, there’s a hundred fires, a hundred joys in a hundred directions,” and I wonder, “Will my grandmother still light the stove tomorrow?” Oh, how warm and comforting her stove was! That flame helped me grow, nurtured me, and made me who I am today. All I want now is to return to her, to hear her stories again, to feel her love. Every person has roots that help them grow, and I will never forget the image of my grandmother and the stove that raised me to be who I am today.

There is a place that marks the beginning, a place to return to, and a solid anchor in the journey of life. That place is home. For me, it is also the place where my beloved grandmother resides. Now, as I live and work in the Soviet Union, I often feel a deep longing for my grandmother, especially when I think of the stove that was always present in her home...

I still vividly remember the image of that glowing fire. The fire, though simple, was a part of daily life for all of us. Every morning, my grandmother would gently light it with her frail hands, nurturing it so that it would grow bright and warm...

I’ve known that familiar fire since I was four years old. That year coincided with the terrible famine of 1945, when so many people died of hunger. I can still feel the sting in my eyes when I think back to those days...

For eight long years, I stayed with my grandmother, lighting that same fire day after day. When the cuckoo bird sang from distant fields, signaling the arrival of summer, I would wonder: 'Grandmother, do you still remember?' I remember how the cuckoo’s call was always followed by the stories she told about her time in Hue. Those were the years of war, and my parents were away in the resistance. I stayed with my grandmother, who became both my teacher and my guardian. She raised me, taught me how to live, and shaped my growth with the love of a mother.

Then came the year when the enemy destroyed our village, leaving nothing but ashes. Our neighbors came back to a scene of despair. Yet, with love and kindness, they helped my grandmother rebuild her small thatched hut. Despite everything, she remained steadfast, and even though she worried about my parents, she calmly instructed me:

- 'Your father is at the war front, he has a lot of work to do. If you write a letter, don’t mention any hardships. Just tell him everything is peaceful so that he can focus on his mission.'

Day after day, my grandmother continued her routine, always lighting the stove. That fire was more than just a source of warmth; it was a symbol of her enduring love, a flame that carried her hopes and her endless patience. Her life had always been a struggle—first to raise my father, and then to raise me. For decades, she maintained the same habit of waking early to tend to the stove, nourishing both me and the community with her kindness and dedication. It was her fire that helped me build my dreams, and now, it was because of her that I had the opportunity to study in the Soviet Union. Her stove was not just about warmth; it was about the bonds she shared with those around her, and the care she provided for everyone.

Now, I live far from her, across half the globe. A new life has unfolded before me, one filled with the sights of smoke rising from countless chimneys, and the warmth of many homes. But no matter how many times I look around, I still ask myself: 'Has grandmother lit the fire this morning?'

Grandmother, I love you deeply. Despite the changes that modern life brings, the image of you lighting the fires of love every day will never fade from my heart. Life here may be full of joy, but when the joy fades—especially when I find myself alone—I think of you. I think of the thatched roof, the stories you told me, the lessons you taught me, the place that shaped me. I think of the warm, glowing fire that sparked within me all my dreams.

Many years have passed since my childhood, and now I’m a law student in Russia. With the crisp chill in the air, nothing feels more comforting than sitting by a warm stove after a long day. The stove brings back vivid memories—of my early years and the wartime I spent with my grandmother, the person I most respect.

The image of the stove evokes deep nostalgia within me. I recall a cold morning, the Northern air seeping into our small home. It was in that moment that my grandmother would rise to start the fire, a warmth that came from her love for me, her grandchild. My childhood with her was marked by hardship, poverty, and labor.

I’ve lived with my grandmother for as long as I can remember, though I don’t recall exactly when it started. What I do remember is that by the age of four, the smell of smoke from the stove had become a familiar presence in my life. It was the year after the liberation, a time when famine had ravaged the land and claimed the lives of so many. For me, it was a time of great difficulty, with food and basic needs scarce, living in constant fear and having to save every scrap of food. My father would work tirelessly with a scrawny, starving horse, earning just enough to get by. Those days, the stove was both a symbol of my struggles and a source of comfort—its smoke would sting my eyes as I sat beside my grandmother. Even now, thinking about it, I feel the sting in my nose and my heart tightens.

Eight years may not seem like much, but for me, it was long enough for the stove to become an inseparable part of my childhood memories. I still remember the sound of the cuckoo bird calling across the fields, its song so plaintive and full of yearning. At those moments, my grandmother would share stories of her time in Hue, and I still remember them to this day.

With my parents away for work, I spent those years under my grandmother's care. She taught me, told me stories, and shared invaluable wisdom. Living with her, I became independent, learned responsibility, and helped her in every way I could. I loved her deeply, knowing how much she had sacrificed to raise my father, and now, despite her old age, she was raising me with the same love.

The French had left, but the Americans came, and with them, even more suffering. The invaders burned our village to the ground, leaving us homeless. We had to rebuild together with our neighbors, creating makeshift huts. I was old enough to understand the hardship my grandmother endured. Despite all of this, she always reminded me, 'Your father is in the resistance, he has his own duties. Don’t write about our struggles, just tell him that we’re safe.' At the time, I didn’t understand why she said that. I was so tired of everything, wanting to tell my father how hard things were, how I felt. But now, I realize how selfish I was for not understanding that my parents had their own burdens to bear. My grandmother was always right.

Every morning and evening, my grandmother would light the stove. Her image is forever tied to the fire—she was the keeper of warmth and light in our home, ensuring that I never felt alone, even in the absence of my parents. The fire she kindled was more than just heat; it was her belief that one day our country would be free, and she passed that belief onto me, strengthening my resolve in life.

Her life had been filled with struggle, enduring hardships that seemed endless. Even after all these years, she kept the same routine, waking up early to tend to the stove. The warmth from that fire, the sweet taste of boiled potatoes and fragrant rice cakes, was infused with the love and memories of my childhood. That taste was so familiar, so comforting. Those years, sharing joy and sorrow with her, are memories I will never forget.

Now, I live far away. In this foreign land, there are countless chimneys and a multitude of joys, but the image of the stove remains sacred to me. It reminds me of the grandmother who shaped my childhood. Every day, she lit the stove, and in doing so, she lit up our lives with warmth, joy, and love. The fire wasn’t just kindled with wood; it was fueled by the love and faith she carried in her heart, a miraculous and sacred fire.

The faint scent of smoke lingers, and my nose stings once again. The memories come rushing back, especially in the chill of the winter wind. I miss my grandmother, and I miss the stove. It has become an irreplaceable part of my life—something I will never forget. Oh, how strange and sacred—the stove.