Buzz
1. February's Warm Embrace
The spring breeze flows through the streets, and someone's peach blossoms start to bloom, preparing to unfurl their golden petals. You hear promises of eternal love, but a fleeting sense of worry follows. After all, who can predict what tomorrow brings? Youth, in its vigor, embraces everything – today, it loves the blue skies and white clouds; tomorrow, it adores the vast, endless ocean. Love changes swiftly, like the flick of a hand.
You sigh, complaining about February. It's a common feeling—disliking a single day can make you despise the entire month, even the place you call home. With Valentine's Day, you see couples holding hands, sharing sweet moments, while those alone may feel the pang of isolation, yearning for love they haven't found. As time passes, loneliness turns one increasingly critical, especially when love seems to surround everyone else.
Yet, February, being the month of love, silently mends broken hearts with genuine affection. It reminds us that we are ever-changing: today's version of ourselves is different from yesterday’s, and certainly different from tomorrow’s. We can't step into the same river twice, and the past stays in the past.
February teaches us that love should never be fickle. When you're in love, look into your partner's eyes and embrace your happiness, knowing that when you grow older, you'll harvest what you’ve sown.
Occasionally, when you rest your head against the window, watching the leaves fall and clouds drift above, you might find yourself reflecting on your own sunset. At that moment, you wonder: will there be anyone beside you to watch the sunset of your life? Finding love is not hard, but finding genuine, lasting love is a rare treasure.
Old friends reunite at a classmate's wedding, and unexpectedly, they reminisce about how bright life seemed years ago. Now, after nearly a decade, you feel a certain sadness about your mature soul, realizing how much hope and dreams you’ve left behind. Back then, love was so simple—quietly admiring someone and cherishing a love unspoken. Yet, even years later, when you meet again, your heart still beats a little faster, though you’ve never walked that final path together.
Love is vast, and for every person in the world, there is a love story. For those who are in love, all it takes is a glance to fill a season with romance. So why not cherish the love around you—family, your peaceful hometown, the book you just read, or the quiet conversations with a friend? Let the season of love pass by gently, leaving behind a meaningful silence, though the love remains unspoken.
Diệu Ái
2. February's Reflections
As the crowds rush to celebrate the Lunar New Year, one by one, they depart. The hometown fades into the distance, the sounds of trains and traffic grow faint. Memories drift like the wind, carrying the images of houses that lined the roads.
February beats with a rhythm filled with love. Amid the whispers of affection and the sweet exchanges of Valentine’s Day, you see couples holding hands, immersed in their passion, and you, lost in the vastness of longing. With quiet calm, you patch up your heart with sincere love, letting go of past desires and realizing that love should be valued and cherished.
The streets of February feel gentler, the trees swaying in the breeze. The people move tenderly, making the roads smoother and less crowded. February helps you appreciate the small corners of the world, like that cozy café where you listen to the gentle strum of a guitar. It’s the small, intimate places—the ones that soothe your soul, like the pages of a cherished book. We are all like the memories that echo within, seeking to preserve what’s long gone. A year passes slowly, yet so quickly, depending on where we stand. There are moments of chaos, of being overwhelmed, of emotions that soak the soul. At times, you look back, silently thanking yourself for having the courage to face the bitter days and the moments of joy, for every tear shed in moments of weakness, for the strength it brought. You thank the smile that always finds its way through, holding onto faith and optimism. You thank that little girl who navigated through challenging days, climbing slippery slopes, ready to fall. Yet, she still smiles, reassuring herself that after all, the smile remains.
Thank you for a year full of change, for the deeper understanding of myself and others around me, for knowing that those who truly love me do so with complete honesty.
Like dew on the branches in February, like the rain at dawn, my fragile soul beats with emotion. Thank you for the love that always stays by my side, accompanying February's visit…
Huệ Hương
3. The Lingering Longing of February
On certain weekends, the streets of Hanoi feel emptier, as if the pulse of life has slowed down. At the old coffee shop, I count the drops of coffee falling, blending with the soft music that carries my wandering thoughts. The song drifts in and out, making me reflect on the footprints of time: “Which age was marked by sadness, the thinning of the shoulders? Which age left the mark of a bird’s footprints in the sky? May your hands remain soft and warm, may loneliness find its way to this age, may we wander through the city with our hair braided in clouds.” Yes, we all must one day confront the years that leave their traces on our eyes, lips, and hair.
Time waits for no one, and as one season fades, another blooms. After the full moon of January, when the peach blossoms wither, people in Hanoi bring home the pear flowers to extend the spring's embrace. The gnarled pear branches with vibrant green leaves sprout alongside the flowers and buds, transported from the northern mountains to Hanoi. The older the branches, the more beautiful and resilient they are, lasting for up to two months. Unlike the vibrant peach blossoms, the delicate white pear flowers bring a unique, graceful beauty to the living room of Hanoi residents. When you think about it, life changes with the ever-turning wheel of the seasons.
February holds a special significance for those born under the Aquarius sign. They seem to share a unique bond. People born in February are often intelligent, seeing things from many angles and with great depth. Having a friend born in February is a treasure, as they cherish every relationship and connection. Interestingly, Aquarians are often magnetic, attracting others effortlessly. Their greatest flaw, however, is their difficulty in forgetting past pain, though they conceal their emotions. So, never hurt them.
Life is unpredictable, offering us every shade of emotion. Sometimes, deep love fades unexpectedly. Everything changes with time. The days pass swiftly like a breeze, and some relationships come only once in a lifetime. Sometimes, we let go, and a once-close friend becomes a stranger with just a turn of the head. Perhaps, only after experiencing life’s bitterness will we truly learn to appreciate the deep sweetness of true love. The mystery of fate makes it impossible to predict what will come and what will go. If we no longer have the chance to be together, let's gently let go, letting our sorrow flow away with the wind and clouds. Learning to forget the past is also a way to live peacefully.
February, with its spring rains, the fading of the purple rain tree flowers, and the scent of grapefruit blossoms drifting in the breeze, causes my heart to ache with the sudden return of longing.
Vy Anh
4. February Festival with Mom
In February, the earth and sky seem closer, embraced by soft drizzle and the delicate fragrance of pomelo and grapefruit blossoms. Time stirs gently on the fresh green buds. The festive buzz of New Year’s Eve has faded, and the vibrant cheer of the Lunar New Year morning is long gone. But for me, February brings a special kind of anticipation – the chance to attend the village festival with my mother.
The historic site of Tu Ho Temple in my hometown was recognized as a National Historic Site by the government in August 1995. The village temple honors the goddess Quan Am, while the communal hall venerates Saint Chu Dong Tu. At the village's entrance, there is an ancient banyan tree shaped like a round tray and a giant cotton tree resembling a rooster. Legend has it that when Saint Chu Dong Tu came to save the people, he stopped here to host a feast for the poor. This is why the banyan tree is called the “Feast Banyan.” Many legends have been woven around these symbolic trees, and each time the villagers return home, they gaze up at this mighty tree, seeing it as a sacred symbol of their homeland.
On the 6th of February each year, the village hosts a grand festival. Those who have moved away and visitors alike get to enjoy the vibrant cultural heritage of the Red River Delta. The festival procession starts from the temple, winds through the village, visits the Feast Banyan, and finally returns to the village hall. The procession is led by a solemn palanquin bearer, followed by energetic dragon dancers, meticulously organized male and female elders performing ritual ceremonies, and women performing lively, colorful folk dances. The children in the procession bring innocence and joy. Every face is filled with happiness, creating a festive atmosphere that celebrates the vitality of spring.
How can I forget the overwhelming sense of joy as I watched the women’s ritual team perform? I was entranced by my mother's serene, graceful movements as she participated for the first time, her face glowing with the youthful charm of someone trying on lipstick for the first time. Someone complimented her, calling her the most radiant in the group. My heart swelled with pride and joy. That memory has stayed with me through the years.
As time passed, the original women’s ritual team gradually faded away as the elders’ health declined. Some have passed on, but each February, my mother recounts the first festival to my children. I am grateful that she remains sharp, and her eyes still sparkle with joy when she recalls those treasured moments. I feel warmth in my heart, knowing she still treasures those memories.
My mother often reminds me: “First, honor the family; second, honor the market; third, honor the temple.” Every festival, she prepares fruits and offerings to bring to the temple. It is simple, pure, and from the heart. For the elderly, the joy lies in having the strength to participate in these rituals, offering their respect to the heavens, the Buddha, and ancestors, finding inner peace.
For me, the simple happiness is going to the festival with my mother. I help her prepare her finest clothes, washing and ironing them weeks in advance. She wears the elegant purple velvet ao dai adorned with glittering sequins or the humble brown ao ba ba, paired with smooth black satin pants. After the three-day festival, she carefully folds away these clothes, preserving the joy and anticipation for the next festival.
I remember when the village procession path was still dirt, the ground muddy and slippery from the drizzle. Yet, the crowd was as thick as ever. My mother held my hand, guiding me through the puddles. Now, the roads are paved with smooth, clean concrete. My mother, now eighty, still holds my hand as we walk the long path through the village. Though her steps are slow and shaky from chronic arthritis, walking beside her amidst the festival’s drums, I still feel safe and protected.
Decades have passed, and my hometown has transformed in many ways. Yet, the cultural value of the village festival remains unchanged. It is not only a reunion for those returning to their roots, nor is it just an opportunity to showcase the village’s history to visitors. The true value lies in the deep connection it fosters among the villagers. Amid the hustle and bustle of daily life, the festival offers a chance to refresh one’s soul and embrace a spirit of kindness. For me, the most awaited part of the spring is February, when I can take my mother to the village festival. Sadly, for the past two years, the festival was canceled due to the pandemic, and the temple was only opened for villagers to offer prayers. But the memories of the drums and the warmth of holding my mother’s hand during the festival still stir in my heart.
I treasure these moments deeply. For spring is fading, and I don't know how many more times I’ll have the chance to accompany my mother to the village festival.
Thả Thị Thanh Hải
5. February Brings the Cold Dew
It’s been so long since I last visited my hometown. The changes are striking, like a young calf separated from its mother. The once muddy paths are now paved with smooth cement, and houses line up, brightly painted in various colors. The scent of trees and flowers lingers around the tiled roofs. The cold, biting winds of winter have passed. No more days of harsh frost, no more frozen lips and faces. Winter, like a traveler, stays for only one night, and February arrives with gentle sunshine that feels like silk, casting a warm golden glow over the earth and through the trees, which are slowly turning a lush green.
Our ancestors said, “January brings the harsh cold, February brings the dew.” I asked my mother, “What does that mean?” She explained, “In January, though it’s still the beginning of spring, the cold is still biting. The flowers have dropped their petals and are getting ready to bear fruit. By February, the cold is gentler, and the moist air is perfect for plants to grow.” Perhaps my mother was right. February is when the rice begins to grow and the sweet potatoes start to form their roots. The rain in February becomes heavier, thicker, like threads connecting the heavens to the earth. The sound of the raindrops is crisp and melodious, like a peaceful song that fills the air.
In February, the cold is just sharp enough to make everything more beautiful. A windbreaker, a thin scarf casually draped over the shoulder, transforms a village girl’s rosy cheeks and red lips into something more graceful. It feels as though we’ve stepped into a world full of ethereal beauties. The migratory birds return, and the sound of fish leaping and shrimp jumping in the quiet ponds fills the air.
In February, my mother grabs a rake and heads to the rice field to clear the weeds. The cobwebs hang on the rice leaves, damp with the morning dew, but no longer freezing cold like in winter. The air is so clear, it seems to push the sky and earth farther apart. The smell of young rice and the earthy scent of mud gently mingle. In the late afternoon, we walk home together, and the firewood in the stove crackles. The aroma of vegetables and fish from the stew spreads out as my mother cooks. A simple meal of small catfish cooked with home-grown water spinach feels like the richest dish, and though it’s a quick meal, it tastes like all the flavors of the countryside. It’s something city dwellers may never experience, but for us, February in my village fills the heart with nostalgia and love.
February isn’t as shy and grand as January, but it bursts with life, overflowing with sweetness and warmth. Each passing day, the plants become more vibrant, their colors deepening. The days seem to last longer. The thin crescent moon at the beginning of the month is soft and delicate, like a stroke of a paintbrush. Walking through the village, the strong scent of yellow flowers calms the mind. Suddenly, the sound of a cricket chirping near the roadside brings a flutter of excitement to the heart. It reminds me of childhood memories, and I realize that the cricket-fighting season is approaching.
Back then, during our afternoons, us kids never slept but wandered around the grassy fields looking for crickets. It was easy to find their nests—just a small mound of fine dirt would appear, and when we scraped it away, a tiny hole would be exposed. We’d pour water into the hole, and our eyes widened with anticipation as the water slowly rose. Our hearts raced with excitement. Soon, two curved antennae and a shiny brown head would emerge. The cricket, forced up by the water, would look around in confusion. “Gotcha!” we’d shout as we quickly trapped it with a small bamboo stick. The excitement grew even more when we caught an old cricket. Those crickets would drink a few drops of alcohol and fight each other to the death, all while we cheered them on.
But childhood passed quickly when the sounds of war reached our village. Lying in wait, listening for the enemy, I would hear the crickets chirping, and my heart would long for my peaceful homeland. The crickets' chirps may not be as beautiful or melodic as a bird’s song, nor do they carry the resonance of a flute. But there’s something profound in their sound, something deep, as if their hearts are speaking directly to the earth, touching our souls.
Now, when I return to the city, I bring my deep connection to my homeland with me. In the quiet of the night, under layers of unyielding concrete, I still hear the sound of a cricket singing, and the memories of my small, humble village fill my heart with bittersweet emotions. February prepares for the fishing season, for frogs to mate. The lights and torches my father used to light up will soon glow once the first rains arrive. The frogs will leave their burrows to search for mates, sitting still in the light as if waiting to be caught.
The beauty of my village in February is pure and free, like the feeling of wanting to slow down and savor the last days of spring. But in this day and age, who has the time to slow down when faced with the pressures of life? Back in those days, during these times, my mother would often sigh with worry about the coming of the lean months. It’s hard to compare the past with the present—it feels out of place and subjective. But I cherish that subjectivity, that sense of imbalance, like the love between a couple, like a child’s love for their parents.
Don’t ask me why, despite the hardships of the past and the small joys we had, we still loved and cherished life. Many older people today often share these stories with their grandchildren, reminding them of the hunger and the tough times: “When you have a good harvest, don’t neglect your corn and potatoes.”
Today’s life is beautiful and it exists because of these deep, lasting connections.
Nguyễn Sỹ Đoàn
