There was still a little bit of coffee left...

Waking up early in the morning, I went to the garden to water the vegetable beds, feeling refreshed as I breathed in the fresh air, and opened my phone to read a few articles about the aroma of Vietnamese coffee and tea.

Read it, then read it again. After reading, listen. A clear, ringing voice in my ear, echoing from the distant sea, the scent of tea amidst the vast expanse of our homeland, resonating in the lingering echoes of Trinh Cong Son's songs in a Hue café, and the whispered reminder that coffee isn't meant to be savored. Coffee is like a morning kiss, a visit to a familiar café, a search for that kiss within the aroma of the coffee...

Hearing this makes my heart ache. I had my morning coffee, and now I'm sitting in the garden writing on my phone: There's still a little bit of coffee left... to remember, to cherish.

My daughter came home and asked if she could work selling coffee for hire, from the afternoon of the 30th of Tet (Lunar New Year's Eve) until the 5th of the following month. After Tet, she said she'd come back to study and listen to her father. Hearing this, my heart ached. How could a teacher's family, with their beloved daughter, not be able to provide for her, letting her work selling coffee for hire for five days during Tet? She pleaded with me repeatedly, but I said, "Let her experience it. Experience it to understand the value of money, to learn how to plan ahead before entering the real world..." Following my wife's advice, I nodded in agreement.

On the morning of the first day of the Lunar New Year, as was customary, I returned to my hometown to visit my grandparents' graves. My heart was heavy, and I felt guilty. Everyone kept asking where my child was. I said she had gone to sell coffee. My child went to sell coffee, and her parents went out to enjoy the spring festivities. I choked up, unable to say anything more.

On the morning of the second day of the Lunar New Year, the whole family went for coffee. We drank at the coffee shop where our daughter works. She served as a waitress, and her parents were the customers.

The bowl of noodle soup was half-finished, so the daughter brought it out to eat with her parents. The camera was filming, and the restaurant owner scolded her for not eating at the customer's table. The daughter replied, "This is our table, Mom and Dad."

Selling, no time to eat. The noodles are soggy and watery; just as you're about to slurp, a customer calls, and you rush to serve, wipe tables, your feet moving nimbly.

The coffee still has something left... to remember, to cherish.

(Entry for the "Impressions on Vietnamese Coffee and Tea" contest, part of the "Celebrating Vietnamese Coffee and Tea" program, 2nd edition, 2024, organized by Nguoi Lao Dong Newspaper ).