Early winter afternoon

The early winter afternoon was so gentle, like a hand gently placed on the shoulder of someone walking away. The sky was covered with a thin layer of mist, the late afternoon sun had faded, leaving only a vague streak of light on the bare treetops. The wind today was colder than usual. Suddenly I remembered a verse by poet Xuan Quynh: “Why don’t you button up your shirt, my dear? It’s cold, it’s getting cold today.” It carried the breath of the approaching winter, blowing in long gusts through the trees along the road, making everything vibrate with rustling sounds. On the other side of the field, a light rain suddenly came, thin as silk and light as smoke. Tiny raindrops fell on the brown tiled roof, on the path still imprinted with footprints, on the remaining yellow leaves, making the whole space become gentler, softer, more nostalgic.

Standing in that scene, my heart suddenly softened like a dry leaf just touched by the dew. I suddenly wanted to return, to step into a familiar house with an old kitchen fire that was always burning. In the lingering cold, I suddenly felt my nose sting when I remembered the small house nestled under the old xoan tree. When the afternoon fell, the kitchen smoke from the yard always gently drifted up with the wind, winding like streams of memories.

Photo: KHANG NGUYEN

I remember very clearly the sound of dry firewood being lit by my mother every winter afternoon. The crackling sound of the fire, the sound of my mother blowing on the stove, the pungent smell of smoke permeating every room of the house. In that corner of the kitchen, a pot of water was gently boiling, the small kettle was tilted, the heat emitted blurred my father's glasses every time he poured tea. The warm firelight reflected on the faces of my loved ones, creating strangely gentle patches of light and dark, like a memory painting that changes color every year. Oh, why do we always think of the image of my mother and father in that old house in winter?

In that place, no matter how cold the weather is, the human breath is still warm. My mother’s hands rub against mine, and press against my cheeks after warming them in the red fire on the stove. My father’s feet, the color of dry mud, rest on the bamboo stick beside the stove, making me feel moved and reluctant to lean my head against it. Everyone’s laughter by the warm fire blends with the crackling wind outside the porch… Every time winter comes back, just thinking about that moment warms my heart as if I were standing in front of the old stove fire no matter where I am.

This afternoon, walking on the road covered in pale white mist, I felt my heart flutter again. I imagined the kitchen smoke gently drifting in the cold, damp air; I heard somewhere the sound of my mother turning over to light the fire; or saw the flickering firelight shining through the crack in the door. Everything was so familiar that it made my heart flutter, wanting to leave all the noise behind to return to that old roof - where love always smoldered like the kitchen fire that never went out.

Early winter comes to remind us that in the endless cycle of life, there is still a place waiting for us to return. A simple, rustic place but containing all the warm love that no winter can erase.

DUONG MY ANH

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