Early winter afternoon

The early winter afternoon arrived gently, like a soft hand resting on the shoulder of a traveler. A thin layer of mist covered the sky, the setting sun had faded, leaving only a faint, hazy streak of light on the bare trees. The wind was colder than usual. Suddenly, I remembered a line from the poem by Xuân Quỳnh: “Why don’t you button up your coat, my love? It’s cold, it’s getting chilly today.” It carried the breath of approaching winter, blowing in long gusts through the trees along the roadside, causing everything to rustle. Across the field, a light drizzle began, thin as silk and light as smoke. Tiny raindrops fell on the brown tiled roofs, on the path marked with footprints, on the remaining yellow leaves, making the whole space feel softer, gentler, and more nostalgic.

Standing amidst that scene, one's heart softens like a dry leaf touched by dew. Suddenly, a longing arises to return, to step into a familiar home with an old hearth always burning brightly. In the lingering chill, my nose stings as I remember the small house nestled beneath the old acacia tree from years ago. As evening falls, the smoke from the kitchen fire rises gently in the breeze, swirling like streams of memories.

Photo: KHANG NGUYEN

I vividly remember the sound of dry firewood my mother lit each winter afternoon. The crackling of the fire, the sound of my mother blowing on the stove, the pungent smell of smoke spreading throughout the house. In that corner of the kitchen, a pot of water was simmering gently, a small teapot tilted, the heat blurring my father's glasses as he poured tea. The warm firelight cast soft shadows on the faces of my loved ones, creating strangely gentle patches of light and shadow, like a painting of memories that changes color each year. Oh, why do I keep thinking of my mother and father in that old house in winter?

There, no matter how cold the weather, the warmth of human presence was always there. My mother's hands rubbed against mine, then pressed against my cheeks after warming them by the glowing fire in the hearth. My father's mud-stained feet rested on the bamboo beam by the stove, making me feel nostalgic and reluctant to let go. The soft laughter of everyone, mingled with the warmth of the fire and the rustling of the wind outside… Every time winter returns, just thinking of that moment warms my heart, as if I were standing before the old hearth fire, no matter where I am in the world.

This afternoon, walking along the road shrouded in a pale white mist, my heart stirred again. I imagined the smoke from the kitchen gently drifting in the damp, cool air; I heard the sound of my mother stirring the fire; or saw the flickering flames shining through the cracks in the door. Everything felt so familiar that it stirred my heart, making me want to leave all the hustle and bustle behind and return to that old home – where love always smoldered like the never-extinguishing kitchen fire.

The arrival of winter reminds us that amidst the endless cycle of life, there is still a place waiting for us to return. A simple, rustic place, yet filled with all the warm love that no winter can ever erase.

DUONG MY ANH

Source: https://baokhanhhoa.vn/van-hoa/sang-tac/202512/chieu-chom-dong-8c55e52/