Cold winds of early winter

I don't know exactly when it started, but I know that as the clock slowly struck four, the space outside the window was tinged with a dull gray.

(AI)

This afternoon, the first chill of winter arrived very gently.

I don't know exactly when it started, but I only know that as the clock slowly struck four, the space outside the window was tinged with a dull gray. It was the characteristic light of the first monsoon winds, no longer the brilliance of summer, but instead the chill of the earth, making the space seem to settle into a melancholic sadness.

The first cold winds of winter blew in, carrying with them a crisp mist and the scent of damp earth, mingled with the smoke from distant cooking fires. The last remaining leaves on the old banyan tree also seemed poised to fall, swirling a few times before gently landing on the damp ground.

I sat by the window, curled up in my faded, floral-patterned duvet, a steaming cup of ginger tea warming my fingertips. This chilly feeling was strangely familiar, like an old friend I hadn't seen in a long time, bringing back a flood of memories.

I remember those winters, when I was a young girl of eighteen or twenty, with shoulder-length hair and big, innocent, dreamy eyes.

It was then that the old, cobblestone streets of the apartment complex where my family lived began to be tinged with the gray of the early morning mist, and the rows of banyan trees with their vibrant red leaves were now bare, their gnarled branches reaching up against the dull gray sky, like charcoal strokes on a watercolor painting.

I still vividly remember the distinctive scent of winter: the smell of decaying leaves, the earthy stench of damp soil, and the lingering smoke of burning leaves drifting from the overgrown corners of the garden.

Every time the cold winds arrived, my grandmother would start knitting new woolen scarves. She would usually sit in her familiar wicker chair by the window, where soft light streamed in, diligently working with her dark red yarn and old knitting needles. The steady, rhythmic sound of the needles blended with the clacking of the old radio playing pre-war songs and poignant folk melodies.

She often knitted me thick, bright red woolen scarves, the color of warmth and good luck, saying it would keep me warm when I went to school or played outside. The soft woolen scarves were imbued with her distinctive scent: the scent of betel leaves and boundless love. I'll never forget the moment she tried one on my neck, stroked my messy hair, and smiled gently.

Back then, Minh – my classmate – would often arrive early to wait for me at the end of the small alley, taking me to school on his old bicycle. Every morning, as the wind rustled through the leaves, carrying the mist, I would snuggle against Minh's back, feeling the warmth from his broad back and thick coat.

On some cold days, when the fog blanketed the road, making it hazy, Minh would stop at the small roadside stall at the end of the alley, where the friendly vendor always had snacks ready. She would buy me a hot cup of soy milk or a steaming bowl of porridge with fried dough sticks. We would shiver from the cold while giggling about trivial things that happened at school.

Those simple moments remain vividly etched in my mind like an old but colorful painting, sparkling like dewdrops clinging to a tree branch at night.

I stood on the balcony, huddled in my old cardigan. The wind rustled through the leaves of the banyan trees on the street, creating a dry, harsh sound. The scent of dry leaves and a hint of dampness from the recently watered ground wafted up, chilly.

The first cold winds of winter have arrived, blowing through the narrow streets, rustling in the dry trees like whispers of a bygone season.

I am no longer the little girl I once was. Life has been full of ups and downs, so many changes. My grandmother has passed away, and the woolen scarves she knitted have become worn and faded with time; I keep them carefully in a wooden box. Minh has also started a family in the capital and has his own life. I still live in this city, still gaze at the bare trees every winter, and still drink a hot cup of ginger tea by my familiar window.

The landscape outside has changed somewhat; tall buildings have sprung up close together, obscuring the once clear blue skies, but the feeling of the cold early winter wind remains the same, carrying with it the breath of memories.

It's incredibly beautiful!

Linh Chau

Source: https://baolongan.vn/gio-lanh-dau-dong-a205956.html