Buzz
1. December
2. December's Dream
December marks the final month of the lunar year, and it is not simply referred to as the twelfth month; it carries a deeply familiar and cherished name. This month evokes countless emotions, reflections, and the culmination of a year's efforts and struggles.
In the early days of December, the rain falls softly, and the winter chill lingers. People shiver from the cold, exchanging sighs over a year filled with hardships. The cold snap persists, winds rush through the streets, and they pierce the heart. 'Stay warm,' reminds mother, 'Stay warm,' says a loved one. But how can we warm the chill that resides within?
For adults, the anticipation of Tet is no longer about the warmth of the season but simply the joy of a long break.
December. The streets are crowded and narrow, filled with people and vehicles rushing noisily in every direction. One might stop and wonder, has the year really come to an end? Time has flown so quickly, passing through so many uncertainties, reminding us of how insignificant we are in the face of life's fleeting moments. So much of our youth has passed—noisy and quiet, both. Now, even if we wish to hold onto it, we can't. In the final days of the year, the streets are bustling more than ever. Everyone seems to be racing against time, preparing for the new year ahead. Whether the coming year will bring joy or sorrow remains unknown, but December is the month when people work tirelessly in anticipation of the good things to come.
December. I remember the days of my youth when I accompanied my father to the fields in the soft winter cold. The harsh chill of winter could only be truly felt by those who work the land, walking through fields so cold that each breath forms a mist in the early morning fog. Farmers labor relentlessly, plowing the fields and planting crops, their minds only at ease once the work is done, allowing them to celebrate Tet. The life of a farmer remains this way, through the final days of each year.
As an adult, having left home, I now truly understand the cold, damp winds of December. And at times, I long for a day when December will return to me, bringing me back to the muddy fields of my youth, where I would dip my bare feet into the cold ground and realize that no chill could ever compare to the hardships my parents endured...
As December comes, I think back to the days of going to the Tet market. When I was little, going to the Tet market in my hometown was an incredibly exciting experience. Like any other child, I was thrilled when my mother would take me to buy new clothes. That alone was enough to bring me immense joy. The Tet market was not just a place to shop; it was a place to reconnect with familiar faces. Those who had been away all year would return to share Tet with their families, and my mother would take me to catch up with old friends, to exchange greetings and well-wishes for the coming year. People from the countryside have always been warm-hearted, kind, and humble, passing this tradition down through generations.
As December returns, I think of those who have moved far from home, working in distant lands. Perhaps no one feels December more deeply than those who are far from their hometowns, working tirelessly all year only to look forward to December for the chance to reunite with family. Those who are financially secure may not feel the weight of the month as much, but for those who struggle, December brings with it a heavy burden. I have a friend who cannot afford to return home for Tet, and it breaks my heart. A journey from Saigon to the homeland, so close yet so distant. In this world where money rules, can a lack of it make the path home seem so far away? Still, I think to myself, let go of pride and pretense, and return home to mother before New Year's Eve.
December. I sit alone in a cold room in a foreign land.
And I find myself immersed in memories...
Who like me, stands on a narrow road, with hibiscus flowers lining the fence, listening to the wind and hearing my mother call for dinner?
Who like me, wanders and picks wild grass along the rice field path, feeling the faint warmth of the winter sun, as the scent of the fields surrounds me?
Who like me, hops alone in the empty yard, looking for pieces of broken pottery, trying endlessly to find what I’m looking for. Then my mother calls, urging me to come inside, as the evening falls with the misty cold.
Now, in December, I sit with these memories, mixing together the rainy and sunny days of the past.
December. I miss the little cat curled up in the corner of the kitchen. It always looked a little sad. I miss the house made of nipa palm leaves, so open to the wind, where every corner seemed to whisper the cold. I remember the chilly evenings when my mother came home late from work. I remember the chickens, sick with disease, scattered across the yard, and the bright-red combs of the roosters my mother saved for Tet.
I also remember the sweet steamed rice cake my grandmother would buy whenever she visited my aunt’s house. The cake was small but fragrant and incredibly sweet. I had a sweet tooth, and like my grandmother, I was the one she always saved the best for. But now, more than 20 years have passed, and I haven’t tasted that rice cake again since my grandmother passed away, peacefully, one cold winter evening, while her grandchild roamed far in the bustling city of Saigon.
I remember my grandmother’s shop, filled with all kinds of goods. Occasionally, my mother would send me to buy 200 dong worth of fish sauce or 500 dong of kerosene. I loved sitting on the old bench, watching the green mint candies, the striped lollipops in the wooden cabinet, with metal mesh, and the bags of tamarind candy, milk biscuits, all hanging from strings, calling out to me. But most of the time, I had no money to buy them, so I’d just watch until I had enough and go home. And later, I’d find myself happily unwrapping candy, lying on the mat, with the sweet taste lingering in my mouth. Ah, the sweet dreams of childhood!
I remember the path behind the house, the one I walked alone on the quiet mornings. I would stop by Mr. Nam’s garden, reach up on tiptoe to pull hibiscus flowers, and suck their nectar. The familiar bushes now seem to shimmer with the new light of December. I picked a few water hyacinths, a handful of leaves, and arranged them in a small pot. I walked back and forth, looking at my little flower arrangement with silent pride.
December is the month before Tet, filled with a whirlwind of activity. But in my heart, another December lingers. A December that is quiet, full of memories and longing that seem to stretch on endlessly.
But isn’t that how every month is? Every month has its own memories and loves, especially when you’ve chosen to live far from home, when you’ve become a river that tirelessly moves toward distant shores.
So I silently sing in the stillness of the night, saying that December has returned, bringing back my childhood...
As December returns, I sit in a coffee shop high above the city, feeling the wind whip through my heart. The city is vast and lonely, even amidst the bustle of the year’s end. The lights twinkle softly, yet they feel faint, just like the emotions of a person. Faint, dull, and hollow. Some worries are simply left behind. Time cannot hold onto the beautiful things in our hearts.
So, if you want to call out December, let it not rush. Call it slowly, and with care...
Lâm Hùng
3. December
December, in my memory, is always cold. I grew up with this chill, and with it, the rush of preparations for Tet became more noticeable.
As December comes, the cold becomes even harsher. I remember the velvet jacket I wore as a child; every time I touched it, it radiated warmth. It was a gift from my father during the cold days, just before Tet. It wasn't as fashionable as I had hoped, but it was full of the love my father had for me. I no longer have that jacket, but its colors, fabric, and design still live within me. In the hustle and bustle of December, I always feel warmth in the winter coats I wear now. December is coming! My father can no longer buy me coats. After two strokes, his health declined quickly. He no longer rides his motorbike and relies on a cane while taking regular medicine. As December approaches, I don’t want it to be cold anymore, for I fear my father’s condition will worsen with the cold.
December for me is a time filled with anxiety and the rush of preparations before Tet. I would watch my parents bustle about during the final days of the year, preparing meals and gifts for relatives. Warm clothing was always their top priority when giving gifts to my grandmothers and us, their children. December’s cold made them want to keep everyone warm.
December! When I was still in school, I eagerly awaited the long Tet break to escape the pressures of exams and academic competitions with my classmates. It was a time to rest and prepare for the coming year. As a student, I could feel the arrival of spring before it even arrived. The streets would grow quieter as buses packed with students from other provinces, and people from all over, rushed home for Tet. In the years that followed, I stopped returning home early for Tet. December in the city became part of me. The hustle of traffic, the congestion, the long waits in crowded markets and stores—it all became part of the December experience.
At the end of the year, there’s always the tension of work deadlines, the wait for bonuses, and the rush to get home in time for Tet. The hectic pace of work in December is a constant reminder of unfinished business, the need to meet the expectations of superiors, and to bring gifts back home for the family.
The cold pierces through as I walk down the long road, with the city’s noise and energy trailing behind me. The vibrant displays of goods and the bustling flower markets along the streets seem to hold me back, urging me to stay amidst the lively urban rhythm. But I reluctantly leave the fast-paced life of the city on every journey back home for Tet. The Tet celebration in the countryside is quiet and serene. Life slows down. In the village, Tet begins with the market. The Tet market usually opens from the 26th until the afternoon of the 30th. Everyone flocks to the market, buying everything they need for the holiday. Though crowded and jostling, the market atmosphere signifies that spring is coming.
The hustle and bustle of December are overwhelming. My arms ache from carrying all the items I need from the market, and my mind races with all the sounds and sights around me. In the final hours of the market, I stop to chat with the familiar vegetable seller. The market is packed with people, the noise and chaos filling every corner, yet it still feels a little poor, a little incomplete, especially in the smaller town markets.
December’s cold wind blows in, the old year quickly slipping away as the new year rushes in. As the month winds down, we finally relax in the market, but there’s still a sense of urgency, a frantic need to prepare everything for Tet. This mindset is shared by my mother, myself, and everyone around us. In the cities, many families start their Tet shopping a month earlier, as city dwellers are always busy. They choose to buy their Tet goods in the final days of the year so they can enjoy the leisurely process of selecting flowers and buying peach blossoms. I see this and feel the difference; the city, while still busy, feels a bit slower, more deliberate.
December is almost here! The cold settles in. Time seems to slow down as the clock ticks closer to the new year. I feel the chill seeping into my skin and the frantic energy of life. I want to hold onto the old year for just a bit longer, while eagerly anticipating the arrival of Tet. There are so many things I want to do, yet I long to walk through December, surrounded by flowers and the festive air. The December of the past and the present stir within me.
No month feels quite like December—busy yet not without its moments of peace. The ticking of time, the cold winds outside—it’s coming! December is here!
Tống Kim Thanh
4. The 23rd of December
There is an old proverb that says, 'Hungry at the memorial, satisfied during the three days of Tết.' According to this saying, Tết only lasts for three days, no more. But for me, Tết begins when the Kitchen Gods ascend to heaven. After this day, the village children start their school break. When the teacher announces, 'From tomorrow, you’ll have Tết vacation…', we all cheer and rush out of the classroom, just like a swarm of termites fleeing from their nest before the rain. There’s nothing more joyous than not having to go to school—this feeling is timeless. And it's in the eager anticipation in the eyes and on the faces of the children that Tết truly arrives at the doorstep.
On the morning of the 23rd of December, my mother wakes up early, sometimes even before the rooster crows, when it's still dark and the morning mist hasn’t cleared from the golden mustard flowers that shimmer like sunlight. The cold wind sways the jasmine branches, making them glisten whiter than the clouds. My mother starts the stove to boil a pot of sweet potatoes for the family to eat before she heads to the market. I lie in my warm blanket, peeking out, my half-dreaming mind still seeing the orange flame dancing on the whitewashed wall, on my mother’s pale, worn face. I can still hear the crackling of the firewood and the sound of the sweet potatoes cracking open, releasing their sweet, golden flesh. Before she leaves for the market, I hear her gentle voice urging me, 'Get up, eat the boiled sweet potatoes, then polish the incense holder and the candle holders on the altar.' I dread polishing the copper, it leaves my hands red and blistered. I lazily stretch and yawn, 'Yes, mother,' then throw off the blanket and sit up, shivering from the cold, catching sight of the sleepy cat curled up by the warm stove. 'You’re even lazier than I am, cat,' I say.
There were a few years when, instead of polishing the incense holder and the candle stands, I followed my mother to the market to buy new clothes. The night before, I couldn’t sleep from excitement, eagerly waiting for the dawn. My hometown’s market, Hoành Nha, holds six sessions a month, on the 3rd, 7th, 13th, 17th, 23rd, and 27th. So the 23rd of December marks the start of the Tết market, lasting until the afternoon of the 30th. In the center of the market stood an ancient silk-cotton tree. In March, the tree would ignite a fiery call to the birds, with sparrows and doves flying in, singing loudly in the misty drizzle of late spring. The tree, lighting up the village, would also lead us through muddy paths and pools of stagnant water. The soles of the market-goers’ shoes would unknowingly step on fallen silk-cotton flowers, their bright red petals a striking sight in the dirt.
At that time, the market was a maze of low huts covered with palm leaves, selling everything from household goods, fabrics, and offerings to snacks and seafood, all jumbled together in a cacophony of voices. 'How much for a set of clothes for the Kitchen Gods?' one vendor might ask. 'Eleven thousand, grandma, it’s a bit expensive,' the other might reply. 'I’ll take one for ten thousand.' Their bargaining is a melody of the village dialect, full of life and the rhythm of the sea. My grandmother, mother, aunts, and many other women from Hoành Nha, even when they’ve moved far away, carry the sound of the village in their voices, as if trying to drown out the noise of the waves with their loud speech.
My mother took me to the fabric stall, which seemed more refined because it was in a brick-and-tile building. She bought me a light green shirt and some blue pants that still smelled of starch. Every time my mother bought me clothes, she chose something a little larger than I needed, so I could wear it for a few years and then pass it down to the younger children in the family. She also bought Thơ a delicate floral dress with a lotus-leaf collar. The smell of the freshly-starched clothes lingered throughout Tết, filling my childhood dreams and reminding me of simpler times. Now, as an adult with a job, I can afford to buy new clothes for myself and my son, yet every time I do, I remember that December 23rd long ago and feel a quiet tear as I think about how far away those moments feel, even though they seem like yesterday. I wonder how many new sets of clothes I’ve bought for my mother for Tết over the years.
My grandmother once told me a story about a poor couple. After a year of failed crops, the husband went away to work and was lost, not returning for many years. The wife, in her grief, remarried to a man who had helped her. One day, while her new husband was away, her long-lost first husband unexpectedly returned. In her confusion and sorrow, she embraced him, fed him, and hid him in a pile of straw. Her new husband returned home, went to the kitchen to fetch ash for the fields, but when he couldn’t find any, he accidentally set the pile of straw on fire, killing the first husband. The wife, in despair, jumped into the flames, followed by the new husband, who, out of love for her, also jumped into the fire, not understanding the situation. Seeing their sacrifice, the Jade Emperor took pity on them, making the new husband the God of the Kitchen, the first husband the God of the House, and the wife the Goddess of the Market. Every year, on the 23rd of December, the Kitchen Gods ascend to heaven to report on the good and bad deeds of people, so the heavens can judge them with fairness. My grandmother said this story isn’t just an explanation for a tradition; it also symbolizes the love, devotion, and loyalty between a husband and wife.
My mother took me through the incense and offerings stalls, holding my hand tightly to avoid getting lost. The crowd was thick. There were piles of gold and silver offerings, shimmering like a mountain of treasures. Paper horses were ready to gallop, their manes waving in the spring breeze. The scent of incense, like the aroma of a poem, filled the air, rising to the sky like a crimson cloud. My mother bought hats and robes for the Kitchen Gods. The male gods wore hats with wings, while the female goddess’s hat had no wings, and she was accompanied by three sets of clothes in red, yellow, and green. My mother also bought three carp, to serve as the means for the Kitchen Gods to ascend to heaven. I naïvely asked my mother, 'How can carp swim in the water and fly to heaven?' My mother smiled and replied, 'The carp will transform into a dragon after crossing the Gate of Heaven, my child.' Like the little carp, I too wonder when I will grow up to repay my parents for their nurturing and love.
My father had finished cleaning the altar with fragrant leaves, and now he was solemnly wearing his black tunic and headgear, lighting incense and candles. The smoke from the incense curled through the air, filling our house with a sacred atmosphere. After ringing the bell and striking the wooden block, he began his prayer to the Kitchen Gods, invoking their protection for our home. The bell’s echo and the sound of the block reminded me that these prayers were the invisible thread linking the living and the deceased, a way for the gods to hear our gratitude and requests.
Later, I burned the offerings and released the carp into the Sò River. The Kitchen Gods rode the carp, carrying my childhood far away. I burned the clothes and memories, turning them into ashes. The carp swam toward the sea, and the ashes scattered across the sky. With every passing December 23rd, I grew a year older. Sometimes, I wish I could be the carp, swimming to the sea, and then returning to the Sò River, small and innocent once again, just like I was when I was five or three years old.
Essay by Hoàng Anh Tuấn
5. Memories of the Old December
So, December has arrived, and the New Year is just around the corner. It makes me nostalgic for the days of my childhood in the village. Back then, when the harvest season ended, the pace of village life would pick up as everyone started preparing for Tết. For us children, Tết meant new clothes, delicious food, and lucky money, so we eagerly awaited the holiday. But for the adults, it was a different story—there were so many preparations to be made. Early in the month, my mother would take my brother and me to the town to have new clothes made by a tailor. Meanwhile, my teacher would take advantage of his free time to chop firewood for making bánh chưng (square sticky rice cakes) and brew special wine for the holiday. A few days later, families would begin to gather and plan for the traditional pig slaughter, while my grandmother would remind the neighbors to save the best bunch of bananas for the five-fruit tray. By the 10th of December, the market in Rọc was already bustling with people.
New items started to appear in the market: Kitchen God hats, “hoành phi” (horizontal scrolls), “câu đối” (couplets) on paper, firecrackers, plastic flowers, rooster paintings, balloons, lanterns, and new clothes. The entire market seemed livelier and more colorful than usual, with vendors and shoppers alike in high spirits. Adding to the crowd were us village kids, with nothing to do, eagerly tagging along with our parents to the market. We went not just to shop but to see, hear, and talk about all the new things we observed.
In the past, the market was not just a place for adults to buy and sell—it was also the village’s center of entertainment for the children. It was a real treat to go to the market, especially if you ran into a friend. It was even better if one of us had some money and would share a candy or treat. It felt like the bond of friendship was strengthened with each shared piece of candy, and we cherished those moments.
The 15th of December, the last full moon of the year, was when the Tết preparations really kicked into high gear. By then, the air was filled with the rush of activity. My teacher would take the time to repaint the house, chop more firewood for the bánh chưng, fix the bamboo frame for the Tết pole, and pick out the best bamboo from the garden. My mother would spend her days making lists of things to buy: dried bamboo shoots, wood ear mushrooms, fish sauce, MSG, sticky rice, incense, sweets, pickled onions, and she’d even ask someone to change small bills for lucky money. For us kids, the conversation always revolved around what new things we had received for the holiday. One would boast about a new shirt, another about new pants, while others would brag about being promised to eat plain rice instead of the usual yam during Tết.
As Tết drew closer, it seemed like time flew by even faster. Before I knew it, it was already the 23rd of December. On the day the Kitchen Gods ascended to heaven, we would occasionally hear firecrackers booming in the distance from families with more means, sending the sweet scent of gunpowder into the spring air, which made my siblings and I feel even more excited. And when my mother came home from the town with two new shirts, I knew that spring had truly arrived at the bridge of Dừa.
Trần Đức Tuấn
6. How I Cherish the Corners of My Mother's Kitchen
The calendar on the wall is almost bare, with only a few fragile pages left. December is slipping away, and winter pours its final days. During this time, my mother is always busy, juggling between the market and home, preparing for the upcoming Tet festival.
My mother has been acquainted with the weight of her shoulder poles since her youth. Now, even though her hair is streaked with gray, she still carries goods to the market. Before the sun has fully risen, she is already off to sell salt at the Hải Hòa market in Hải Lăng, Quảng Trị. In the late afternoon, after the sun has waned, she brings the goods back to the market in the evening. Her small frame and thin shoulders bear the heavy burden of the salt-laden poles, but she moves with practiced ease, switching the poles from one shoulder to the other without breaking her stride. Though she is busy with market trade, she never forgets the sacred preparations for Tet, from the altar to the yard.
As the year winds down, the kitchen always burns bright from the fire my mother stokes. On the 28th day of Tet, she goes to the market to sell salt, and by the evening, she returns with baskets full of sticky rice, green beans, and peanuts to prepare for making bánh chưng. Late that night, she soaks the rice, cleans the banana leaves, and boils the beans to get ready for wrapping the cakes. The white, plump rice grains, the fragrant yellow beans, and the banana leaves—cut by my father earlier that morning—are all spread out at the doorstep for wrapping. By the 29th, the kitchen is alive with the red glow of the fire cooking the cakes.
When we were children, my siblings and I would eagerly wait by the stove to help my mother with the bánh chưng. The sounds of our innocent chatter mixed with the crackling firewood, the gentle patter of rain outside, and the cold wind that would sneak in and lull us to sleep. When the rooster crowed in the early morning, I would quickly wake up and see my mother's silhouette on the bamboo wall. Another Tet had passed, and I had never stayed awake all night to help her with the bánh chưng.
The cakes my mother wrapped were simple, with just a little green bean filling, but somehow they tasted better than any other. Perhaps it was because of the hunger and poverty, or maybe it was the loving hands that wrapped them.
There were times when I would linger in the yard, gazing at the kitchen corner, thinking about the smoke rising from the stove, the soot gathering on the walls, and my mother. In the evening, when she cooked rice, the smoke would drift lazily into the air, spreading and curling around the banana leaves. Over time, those leaves became covered in a fine layer of dust from the burning straw, and I couldn't help but think that my mother, like those banana leaves, was fragile, her hair streaked with gray, touched by the smoke of the evening kitchen fire.
During the late winter days before Tet, the sun rarely shows itself, but when it does, it is soft and gentle. A pale light pours through the window, and the sunlight, like a thin pink thread, dances on the soot-streaked bamboo walls, shimmering like the hearts of the people who love it. The warmth of spring begins to creep into the air.
As my mother prepares the year-end offerings in the kitchen, I look around and am suddenly struck. The red glow of the fire, the flicker of the lamp, or the spring sunlight all made me realize that my mother’s skin is now wrinkled with crow’s feet, her hair graying, and her back hunched over. I feel such a deep affection for her weary shoulders.
The drizzle falls lightly, collecting on my mother’s frayed conical hat, resting on her eyelashes and hair. It marks the arrival of spring, slowly creeping toward the doorstep.
My mother often told me the story of her first Tet as a daughter-in-law. People often say: “The first day of Tet is for the father, the second for the mother, and the third for the teacher.” After preparing the offerings on the 30th to invite our ancestors for Tet, my mother would get up early on the first morning of the new year with my grandmother to prepare the sticky rice and sweet soup for the “New Year’s offering.” Afterward, she would think about returning to her mother’s house on the second day. But come morning, the family would be preparing the “Tet for our house” offering. And on the third day, she would cook the farewell meal for our ancestors. My mother, with tears welling in her eyes, would lie down, her face soaked with them. Her family’s house was only a field away, in the neighboring village. As she recounted this story in her thick Central accent, she would proudly say:
- When you enter a new family, you must follow their customs, dear, it’s the role of a daughter-in-law.
Even though this is a story from the past, I still feel such deep affection for my mother, for the three days of Tet when she was caught in the cycle of kitchen duties, and for the nervousness of her first Tet as a daughter-in-law.
Whether it was a regular day or Tet, my mother always woke early to stoke the fire and brew green tea. She would wear her conical hat and go into the garden to pluck fresh tea leaves, gathered at dawn when the dew still clung to them. After washing the leaves with fresh spring water, she would add a few slices of ginger to boil with the tea. When hot water was poured into the pot, the aroma of green tea mixed with the spicy ginger, rising into the air. As a child, I didn’t like drinking the bitter tea, but I loved the scent it gave off. A cup of green tea, paired with a slice of ginger candy my mother quickly made, was a warm comfort for the new year.
When I was younger, all the children were curious about the world beyond. We longed to travel far away. Yet, now, as I am far from home, I miss my mother’s figure, the smoke rising from the stove, the straw pile in the yard, and the humble kitchen corner.
As Tet comes, the buds of the apricot flowers begin to bloom, and the warm spring sun spreads across the sky, waking the world from a long, dreamy sleep. As a child born and raised in the countryside, cradled by a hammock and my mother’s lullabies, I will always carefully cherish the memory of my mother’s kitchen in my heart for a lifetime.
Nguyễn Đức Anh.
7. The Old Village: December Welcomes Spring
As winter winds down, the riverbanks are painted with the golden hue of mustard flowers. The first blossoms of the village’s early trees fall, covering the paths with violet petals. The pomelo trees in the garden begin to bloom, and the peach trees cautiously prepare to burst open. The air still holds a chill, but the sharp bite of winter has softened. A fine mist hangs like gossamer in the air, carrying the sounds of flowers, grass, gentle winds, and falling rain—an unmistakable melody announcing the arrival of Spring in this old village.
On the mornings of December, the village echoes with voices calling to one another as people hurry to the fields: planting the last of the winter-spring rice, harvesting the final sweet potatoes before Tet, or finishing the beds for planting other crops. Despite the rush, everyone is cheerful, animatedly discussing the prices at the local Tet markets. The villagers eagerly await the brief pause, when they will take a break from the fields to go shopping for the holiday.
The nights in December are filled with the rhythmic clanking of water wheels. From the village temple to the family shrines, every home has its fish pond, and the sound of water wheels fills the air from one end of the village to the other. People work through the night to catch fish for the early Tet markets, earning money for the holiday. The children, too, are excited, for this is their one opportunity each year to play the game of catching fish, their favorite pastime. During the day, they might ignore their mother’s calls, but at night, they are wide awake, eagerly anticipating the muddy adventure.
At dawn in December, the village rings with the sound of pigs squealing. Normally, pigs are slaughtered for special occasions, but as December draws to a close, every household prepares for the Tet holiday. Some share their meat with neighbors and relatives, while others sell it. The sound of pigs calling out fills the village, signaling the arrival of a bountiful Tet.
As the nights stretch on, the familiar sound of rice mills grinding and the rhythmic thump of mortar and pestle fill the air, as the villagers prepare the rice for Tet: sticky rice for cakes, rice for sweets, and the essential grains for the festive meals. This preparation is done now so that when the holiday arrives, the villagers can rest easy, without needing to grind rice or worry about feeding their pigs.
December brings a different sound to the village’s paths. It’s no longer just the sound of wooden clogs or the soft thud of official sandals used by village leaders as they head to meetings. This time, it’s the sharp click of Western shoes, the sound of modern footwear worn by those returning home for Tet. With each passing year, these new sounds grow louder, reflecting the growing diversity and vibrancy of the Tet celebrations in the village.
The fields are alive with the hustle and bustle of the sugarcane harvest in December. Voices calling to each other, the chopping of sugarcane, and the clatter of carts carrying cane to the presses are all part of the preparations for the Tet market. Sugarcane is not only used to make syrup that sweetens the Spring, but it’s also essential for other purposes: as a refreshing drink in the summer, a decorative element for the “moon-viewing” table during the Fall, and as a ritual offering during Tet. The sugarcane stalks are neatly arranged on altars to honor the ancestors once the Tet tree is planted in front of each home.
The sugar mill at the edge of the village is busy with the grinding and pressing of the cane. The sound of the machine creaking, the syrup flowing into pots, and the low breathing of the ox pulling the press all combine to create a melody that fills the December air. This syrup will be used for making sweet treats like chè lam, bánh gai, and chè kho, as well as to accompany Tet meals such as bánh chưng and bánh giò. For the villagers, syrup is an indispensable part of the Tet celebrations.
For the children, syrup is an unforgettable treat. They lie in the hay, keeping watch over the boiling bánh chưng, while savoring roasted sweet potatoes dipped in the leftover syrup from the chè. The adults talk about “the month of syrup,” and the children know exactly what it means: the time to eat sweet potatoes dipped in syrup. In folk games, there is no need for deep meaning—just joy, like the lines from an old rhyme: "Nu na nu nống / Cái cống nằm trong / Cái ong nằm ngoài / Củ khoai chấm mật…"—simple and sweet.
The December days in the old village are full of noise and activity, lasting until the 23rd, when the villagers send Mr. Táo back to heaven and erect the Tet tree. After this day, the sounds fade, transforming into something lighter, rising above the village on the Tet trees planted in front of each home. The harmony of ceramic bells, the soft ringing of small bells, and the fluttering of decorations fill the air, signaling the arrival of Spring with every breeze that sweeps through the village.
The wind rises, and small swallows take flight, dancing through the sky. As the sun rises with a soft pink glow, it marks the arrival of Spring, calling it back to the village.
Đào Quang Bắc
8. Reflections of December
The year slowly winds down, and the world around us seems to stretch towards the final days of the year. People feel a restless energy, like a train pulling away from the station—half excited, half reluctant to leave the old year behind. December arrives, carrying a mix of emotions that intertwine in our hearts...
December brings a quiet farewell to the chill of winter. I open the window and gaze out at the yard, surprised by the warmth of the sunlight filling the space. The soft smile of December greets me with the first buds of yellow apricot blossoms, and the marigolds in the garden burst into full bloom, releasing their fragrant petals. Golden chrysanthemums and purple ones sway in the breeze, as if welcoming the new year with vibrant colors. I step into the garden, where I spot the first signs of spring in the tender buds of the climbing vines. And so, Spring has arrived, with a chorus of flowers and a sense of excitement in the air, bringing hope for a peaceful, joyful new year.
December spreads across the landscape like a gentle breeze, riding the flowing rivers and the lush green rice fields. The last rounds of planting are finished, and the voices of village women fill the kitchen with laughter as they prepare pickled vegetables, coconut candies, and banana preserves. I can see my grandmother and mother, bent low, gathering fallen leaves to tidy up the yard and prepare for the new year. Nearby, blankets and pillows dry in the warm sun, soaking in the golden rays.
The days and nights of December seem to move faster, as the year’s final market days are filled with bustling crowds and lively transactions. Large watermelons are stacked in neat piles, and the air is filled with the scent of sweets, betel leaves, fresh fruits, incense, and new clothes. The smell of ink on the freshly written couplets for the new year mingles with all these fragrances, creating a unique scent of Vietnamese Tet. This aroma nourishes the souls of children, warms the hearts of the elderly, and becomes an overwhelming nostalgia for those far from home. Despite the joy and excitement that December brings, there is a sense of longing for those who feel lost or lonely in a bustling city. One evening, as time draws near its final moments, the smell of green beans, fresh sticky rice, and roasted pork wafts through the air. Someone, rushing to catch the last bus home, carries bags of gifts for their village family. The last bus of the night travels through the mist, as the sounds of the old year slip away, making way for new reunions and celebrations.
As December comes, it whispers away the worries of the past year, embracing us in the shimmering promise of a new beginning—bright as the clear blue eyes of a child.
Cẩm Thi
9. The Season of Swallows Returning
The last days of the lunar December arrive. The wind blows fiercely, whipping through the fields, sending shivers down your spine as it cuts through the air. Every household is busy with the task of watering the fields. The earth, now softened by water, crumbles into a fine powder, like freshly boiled sticky rice flour slowly dissolving into a bowl.
On the fields, just before the Tet holiday, the sounds of plowing echo in the air—the sharp, rhythmic cracking of bamboo whips and the low moo of a buffalo as it pulls the plow across the wet soil. The whole village is preparing for planting, though no one dares to sow just yet, as the cold still lingers. The sky remains a dull grey, signaling the last stretch of winter.
Suddenly, from the distance, small black and white dots appear in the sky. The fierce winds begin to subside, and the air grows warmer. The dots grow larger, taking the familiar shape of small V formations, flying slowly towards the fields. These are the swallows, the heralds of spring, returning to our beloved homeland, signaling the arrival of the season of renewal.
Then the rains come, falling softly on the fields, the forests, the villages, and the streets of the city. As the rain nourishes the soil, the young rice shoots, once planted in the high fields, are now carefully arranged in neat rows in the lower fields, like soldiers marching in formation. Our mothers, the commanders of this rice army, watch over the seedlings, which will soon rise to conquer the land and ensure abundance for the new year. And then come the peach blossoms, the yellow apricots, and the burst of green leaves from the trees—everything coming alive in anticipation of spring.
The one true herald of spring, however, is the swallow. These tiny, graceful birds, who never forget their homeland of bamboo groves, return after traversing vast seas and overcoming countless challenges, bringing with them the promise of renewal. Our ancestors, and even we, have endured hardships, struggles, and sacrifices. The symbol of the swallow, represented by the small V-shaped formations in the sky, has a meaning beyond words, one that resonates deeply in the hearts of all who cherish their homeland.
I can only hope that for centuries to come, that beautiful V shape will continue to mark the sky over Vietnam, forever reminding us of our roots and the promise of spring.
Phạm Minh Giang
