Tigon flower branch

From the second-floor classroom window, Thu Ha looked down at the schoolyard bustling with the atmosphere of the upcoming holiday.

From the second-floor classroom window, Thu Ha looked down at the schoolyard bustling with the atmosphere of the upcoming holiday. Groups of students gathered in the hallway, discussing buying flowers to give to their teachers. The late autumn sunlight cast a golden glow across the yard, creating a scene that was both poetic and romantic.

In the corner of the backyard, through the gaps between the branches, Thu Ha saw Minh Anh standing alone. She was bent over, carefully tending to something with the meticulousness of a jeweler polishing a precious gem. Pink tigon flowers grew among the grass, their petals delicate as paper, yet possessing a strong, resilient vitality, enduring sun and rain. Thu Ha recalled that since the beginning of the school year, she had seen Minh Anh watering and weeding that small flowerbed many times after school.

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Minh Anh is a good student but usually quiet, sitting in the back corner of the classroom, rarely participating in group activities. Her family circumstances are difficult; her father passed away when she was in sixth grade, and her mother works odd jobs to support the two sisters' education. While her classmates often gather in groups, laughing and joking, Minh Anh always stands outside that circle, like an orphan child looking out the window at a party that doesn't belong to her.

The school bell rang. Thu Ha turned back to the podium and opened her lesson plan. Class 9A entered, noisily greeting her before sitting down, the sound of chairs being dragged mingling with the rustling of books and papers.

"Yesterday, the teacher assigned us to analyze a poem. Minh Anh, please read your analysis aloud to the class!"

Minh Anh stood up, her hands gripping the edge of her notebook so tightly that her skin turned pale. Her voice, initially trembling like an autumn leaf in the wind, gradually became clearer and more melodious. Her sentences were bright and her emotions genuine, flowing like a small stream winding through the rocks. Thu Ha realized that she had a very good aptitude for literature.
It's just a lack of confidence to express myself.

When Minh Anh finished reading, the whole class applauded loudly. Some students turned to her and praised, "That's great," "You write so well." She sat down, her cheeks flushed, but her eyes shone with a joy that Thu Ha had never seen in her before, like a lamp being lit in a long-dark room.

After school, as Thu Ha was tidying up her books on her desk, Minh Anh ran up to her. She handed her a small envelope, the handwriting on it slanted and innocent: "For Ms. Ha."

"Teacher! I'm writing to you. Tomorrow is Vietnamese Teachers' Day, November 20th, and I wanted to give you this in advance!"

Thu Ha was surprised to receive it, gently stroking Minh Anh's head: "Thank you so much. I'll read it when I get home."

Minh Anh smiled and hurried out, leaving Thu Ha standing in the deserted classroom, holding the light envelope in her hand, feeling a strange warmth in her heart.

*

* *

In the late afternoon, in her small rented room, Thu Ha opened the envelope. The white lined paper, the neat handwriting, each line written in blue ink:

Dear Ms. Ha!

I don't know if writing this letter is good or not, but I want to tell you how grateful I am to you. Before you came to teach my class, I always thought of myself as an insignificant child, like a grain of sand lost on a vast beach. My family was poor, I didn't have nice clothes like my friends, and I couldn't afford extra tutoring. I was often ridiculed by my classmates, so I just wanted to sit quietly in a corner, invisible. But you didn't ignore me. You often called on me to answer questions, praised my writing, and encouraged me to be more confident. Now I dare to stand up and speak in front of the class. I feel like I'm no longer invisible. I planted a bed of tigon flowers in the corner of the yard when I was in sixth grade. My father taught me how to grow them before he passed away. He said that tigon flowers, though small, are very resilient, able to survive in poor soil, and are not afraid of drought or storms. Just like poor people, you know, we have to learn to be resilient. Yesterday I saw them bloom, and I wanted to pick some for you. I don't have money to buy beautiful flowers like my friends, but I can promise you that I will try my best to study hard so that I can become a useful member of society in the future, as you have taught me. That is the gift I want to give you.

Minh Anh.

Thu Ha read the letter over and over, word by word, sentence by sentence, as if wanting to engrave it into her heart. She placed the letter on the table and looked out the window where the streetlights began to twinkle like tiny stars in the heart of the city as it sank into the night.

During her three years as a teacher, Thu Ha had received many thank-you notes and beautiful bouquets of flowers, but this letter was different. It touched the deepest part of her heart, the place where she still cherished the original reason she chose teaching as her profession.

*

* *

On the morning of November 20th, golden sunlight bathed the schoolyard. Students from all classes rushed out and lined up neatly, each holding a bouquet of fresh flowers, carefully wrapped in shimmering cellophane.

Thu Ha stood among the teachers, watching the 9A students laughing and joking. When it came time to present flowers, each student ran up to give flowers to the teachers, along with sweet wishes. Thu Ha received the bouquets from the students, thanking each one with a warm smile. Thu Ha noticed Minh Anh standing alone in the corner of the courtyard, slightly behind. She wasn't holding a bouquet of flowers.

Minh Anh stood watching from a distance, her face slightly flushed, her hand clutching her pocket, her mouth biting her lip as if she were hesitating about something. Only after her friends had finished giving their flowers and returned to their rows did Minh Anh slowly step forward. Standing in front of Thu Hà, she carefully pulled a tigon flower from her pocket, as if carrying a precious treasure.

"Auntie! I've been taking care of this tigon plant since it was tiny. It bloomed yesterday, so I picked some to give to you."

Minh Anh held up the flower branch, her eyes sparkling as if holding an ocean of emotion. Her voice was soft but clear, trembling with emotion. Thu Ha bent down and gently took the flower branch. She put her arm around Minh Anh's shoulder, her voice choked with emotion: "This is the most beautiful gift I've received today. Thank you so much!"

Minh Anh smiled, a smile as bright as the morning sun shining through the leaves. She turned and ran back to the line, this time not with her head down as usual, but with her head held high, confident and relieved.

Thu Ha held a branch of tigon flowers in her hand, bringing it up to her nose to inhale gently. The scent was soft and delicate, a faint hint of damp earth and early morning sun, the scent of her homeland and childhood. The branch carried within it a wholehearted devotion, a meticulous care taken day after day, month after month, a pure emotion as clear as a flowing stream.

*

* *

That afternoon, after all the students had left, leaving the schoolyard deserted, Thu Ha sat in the office organizing files. Mr. Tuan, the math teacher, walked by, holding a steaming cup of black coffee. He glanced at the tigon flower branch Thu Ha had placed in the vase on her desk and said, "That's a beautiful flower!"

The teacher's voice was gentle, with a certain depth to it.

Thu Ha looked up and smiled: "My students gave it to me, sir!"

Teacher Tuan nodded, took a sip of coffee, and continued on his way. But before stepping out the door, he stopped, turned around, and said in a gently melancholic voice, "I've been teaching for almost thirty years. People remember flowers like these the longest. They remember them even more than expensive bouquets."

That evening, Thu Ha carefully wrapped the flower branch in damp tissue paper and brought it back to her rented room with reverence. She placed it in a small, old glass vase on her desk. The soft light shone down, making the petals seem to glow, shimmering with a warm golden light.

Outside the window, the city gradually sank into the late night. The lights of the high-rise buildings lit up one by one. Thu Ha turned off the main lights, leaving only the flickering light of her desk lamp. The soft light shone on the pink tigon flowers, and she knew that no matter how difficult the future held, no matter how challenging life became, she would continue on the path she had chosen, the path of a teacher…/.

Mai Hoang

Source: https://baolongan.vn/canh-hoa-tigon-a207480.html