Only mother is spring.

But the place remained quiet and desolate, with the biting north wind chilling my heart. Mother hadn't come home yet! Around me, across from my house, by the river, children were happily playing, dressed in their new clothes and shoes. As for me, I only had two old outfits and a pair of patched sandals. In the kitchen, there was a pot of dried anchovies I'd caught yesterday. Despite the vibrant yellow blossoms welcoming the New Year, despite the aroma of braised meat, coconut jam, puffed rice cakes, and grilled rice crackers, despite the tempting color of the watermelon that Ngoan next door showed me because his mother had just cut it for him, I still gazed longingly towards the riverbank. Yet, it remained deserted and gray, a scene of the fading twilight of the year.

I was born out of wedlock. My mother started her own family with nothing, struggling in every way to raise and educate me. We relied on each other to survive. A relative lent her a small boat, and my mother, like some in the neighborhood, rowed it into the Đồng Tháp region to smuggle rice. If she managed to get past the checkpoints, she'd have something to eat; if she got caught, she'd lose all her capital and profits. And this trip, more than a week has passed (instead of the usual four or five days), and she still hasn't returned. Before she left, she patted my head and said, "I pray this trip goes smoothly. When I come back with money, I'll buy you things for Tet (Lunar New Year), and then buy some pickles and meat to offer to our ancestors." Yet, the crimson sunset at the end of the river on the thirtieth night of Tet remains empty, only the distant shadow of my mother remains.

In the early 1980s, life was very difficult, but Tet (Vietnamese New Year) was still full of human warmth and affection. The atmosphere of Tet in the old days was bustling as the twelfth lunar month began. Due to persistent scarcity, people poured all their money into these days each year, so that their relatives and children wouldn't be left behind by their neighbors and friends. At the beginning of the twelfth lunar month, the women would busily grind flour to make rice paper early in the morning, grinding by hand (later, flour grinding machines made it more convenient). And the scent of coconut leaves and firewood used to light the fire for making rice paper near dawn permeated the air, evoking a longing for the fragrant, crispy coconut rice paper grilled over coconut shell charcoal; or the steamed rice rolls filled with mung bean and coconut, dipped in a garlic and chili fish sauce that remains a delicious memory.

By the tenth day of the twelfth lunar month, near dawn, the rhythmic pounding of rice cakes begins, a sound heralding the arrival of spring. By the fifteenth day of the twelfth lunar month, the Tet holiday is considered over, with families and individuals pouring into their yards and gardens to pluck the leaves from apricot blossoms. By the twentieth day of the twelfth lunar month, strings of sausages can be seen hanging by the side of houses or behind the kitchens; baskets of coconut jam, pumpkin jam, and gooseberry jam are drying in front of the houses. By the twenty-third day of the twelfth lunar month, after sending the Kitchen God to heaven, Tet is officially in full swing. Apricot blossoms and marigolds begin to bud around the houses and along the country roads; spring permeates every corner of life. That was Tet in the past, but now, with the advent of industry, rice paper, rice cakes, watermelons, and various kinds of jams are available year-round. The longing for Tet is gone; only the apricot blossoms and marigolds still create a touch of spring atmosphere in the countryside.

Returning to the story of the thirtieth night of the Lunar New Year of the Year of the Monkey, I sat waiting for my mother, then quietly went inside and fell asleep on the bamboo platform without realizing it. In the middle of the night, I was startled by a commotion at the dock. I jumped up, opened the door, my voice choked with joy: "Mother...!" Just a few minutes later, I heard the lively sounds of the New Year's Eve celebrations. It was a New Year's without sweets, meat, fish, new clothes, or new shoes, but it was the most memorable New Year's in my life.

Source: https://thanhnien.vn/nhan-dam-chi-co-me-la-mua-xuan-thoi-185250111191740484.htm