Under the canopy of the flame tree, years ago

The road leading to the old school is now paved with concrete, no longer shrouded in red dust every afternoon after school. The eucalyptus tree at the entrance to the alley was also cut down for fear it would fall on the power lines during the rainy season. Only the old flame tree in the schoolyard remains, leaning like an old friend waiting for someone.

The other day, I happened to be passing by and stopped by the school at midday. It was summer break, so it was deserted. The classrooms were all closed. The wind blew across the courtyard, carrying the pungent smell of sunshine mixed with the scent of dry leaves. Several fallen red phoenix flower petals lay motionless at the base of the trees, as if no student had ever bent down to pick them up and press them into their notebooks.

Female students from Tan Hiep commune ride their bicycles under rows of vibrant red flame trees that brighten up a corner of their hometown.

In my hometown, May always begins with the sound of cicadas. They chirp from morning till evening, their calls echoing from treetops to rooftops, becoming a familiar sound. As children, no one paid attention to whether the cicadas' chirping was sad or happy. We only knew that when the cicadas started buzzing, summer vacation was approaching, and the first rains of the season were about to pour down on our small village.

The rain here is so strange. One moment it's blazing hot, the next it's pitch black. The students who didn't have time to run home had to huddle under the school's eaves. Some used their bags to cover their heads. Others held out their hands to catch the raindrops and burst into laughter.

The first clusters of flamboyant flowers burst into vibrant red blossoms under the May sun.

Under the shade of the flame tree, we girls used to huddle together, eating bags of candied tamarind and passing around cups of red and green shaved ice outside the school gate. Of all of us, I remember Hanh the most, my best friend and classmate throughout high school. Hanh had thick hair, always tied back with a faded purple ribbon. Her family was very poor; her mother sold boiled bananas at the market, and her father worked on a boat far down the river.

That year, the floodwaters rose, and her father's boat capsized in the middle of the night. People rescued the people, but all the goods were lost. From then on, Hanh missed several days of school to help her mother at the market. I remember the morning she returned to class, her old ao dai (traditional Vietnamese dress) worn at the sleeves, her plastic sandals with broken straps tied together with tiny wire. She sat silently the whole morning, no longer smiling as much as before.

The red color of the flamboyant tree evokes memories of school days.

That day was near the end of the school year. The flame trees in the yard were in full bloom, their red blossoms ablaze. A gust of wind sent the flowers scattering all over the hallway. During recess, I saw Hanh sitting alone under a tree behind the classroom, head bowed, copying notes for other kids to earn money to buy notebooks. Her pen was clogged, and she kept shaking it but no ink came out, so she burst into tears. I sat down next to her, not knowing what to say. Back then, the kids from the poor countryside were very self-respecting; they rarely dared to ask each other directly about their feelings.

The red phoenix flower petals fall all over the courtyard, evoking memories of a bygone era of white school uniforms.

When school ended in the afternoon, the whole class secretly chipped in to buy Hanh a new ao dai (traditional Vietnamese dress). Without anyone telling them what to do, each person contributed a thousand or two thousand dong. When we gave it to her, the little girl stood frozen, clutching the red plastic bag, her lips trembling. She cried, and we all cried with her.

I will never forget that afternoon. The first rain of the season had just fallen. The schoolyard was glistening with water. Hanh, clutching her old ao dai (traditional Vietnamese dress), ran beneath the rows of red flame trees, wiping away tears as she ran. The thin, worn fabric of her dress fluttered behind her, as if it were about to break.

Then the final year of high school came to an end.

The flame trees are in full bloom, painting the sky red.

We sat under the flame tree, writing farewell messages to each other. Each of us promised to remember each other always, and to visit the school often. But life doesn't allow people to keep the promises of their seventeen-year-olds.

Hanh dropped out of school after that summer. I heard she went with her aunt to Binh Duong to work in a garment factory. For the first few years, she still sent letters home. Every letter described missing the sound of cicadas and the schoolyard during the season of red flamboyant flowers. After that, all contact stopped.

I once ran into Mrs. Hanh at the old market. She had aged considerably, her hair almost completely gray. I quietly asked her where Hanh was living. She smiled sadly and said, "She got married and moved to Dong Nai . She only comes home occasionally."

I won't ask any more questions.

The flamboyant tree - the flower of school days.

That afternoon, on my way home from school, I stood under the old flame tree for a long time. The wind blew a few petals onto my shoulders and then gently at my feet. Suddenly, I remembered the little girl with the purple ribbon from years ago, and the rainy afternoon at the beginning of the season when she ran across the schoolyard, clutching her new ao dai (traditional Vietnamese dress).

There are people who only accompanied me for a short time, but when I look back on them later, my heart still softens like the soil of my homeland meeting water.

The young flame tree buds begin to bloom at the sound of the first cicadas of the season.

For decades, the old flame tree has bloomed red every summer. Only the students of that time have drifted off in different directions in life. Sometimes I think, perhaps youth doesn't disappear. It just remains beneath the old flame tree's canopy, amidst a familiar rainy afternoon, waiting for someone to accidentally pass by and suddenly remember it.

AN LAM

Source: https://baoangiang.com.vn/duoi-tan-phuong-nam-nao-a485740.html