Cold wind of early winter

I don't know when it came from, only that when the clock slowly struck four, the space outside the window was tinged with a dull gray.

Illustration photo (AI)

This afternoon, the first cold of winter comes gently.

I don’t know when it started, but I know that when the clock slowly struck four, the space outside the window was tinged with a dull gray. It was the light typical of the first monsoons, no longer the brilliance of summer days, but instead the coldness of the earth and sky, making the space seem to be quiet in a vague sadness.

The cold wind of early winter blew in, carrying with it the crisp mist and the scent of damp earth, mixed with smoke from distant houses. The last remaining leaves on the old banyan tree were about to fall from their branches, fluttering a few times before gently landing on the damp ground.

I sat by the window, wrapped in a faded floral quilt, a steaming cup of ginger tea in my hand, warming my fingertips. The chilly feeling was strangely familiar, like meeting an old friend after a long time, bringing back a flood of memories.

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

That was when the old brick-paved roads of the apartment complex where my family lived began to be tinged with the gray of morning mist, the rows of red-leafed banyan trees were now only bare, their branches reaching up to the gray sky, like charcoal strokes in a watercolor painting.

I still clearly remember the distinctive scent of winter, the smell of rotting dry leaves, the musty smell of damp soil and the smell of smoke from burning leaves drifting from the wild corners of the garden.

Every time the cold wind blows, my grandmother starts knitting new woolen scarves. She often sits on her familiar rattan chair by the window, where the soft light shines in, diligently working with a ball of crimson yarn and a pair of old knitting needles. The steady, rhythmic sound of the knitting needles blends with the old radio playing pre-war songs and mournful vọng cổ verses.

She often knitted thick scarves for me, bright red, the color of warmth and luck, saying that it would keep me from feeling cold when I went to school or went out to play. The scarves were soft, soaked in her signature scent: the scent of betel leaves and boundless love. I still remember the moment she tried it on my neck, caressed my granddaughter’s messy hair, and smiled kindly.

Back then, Minh - my classmate - often came early to wait for me at the end of the small alley, taking me to school on his old bicycle. Every early morning, the wind blew through the leaves, carrying the mist, I often snuggled into Minh's back, feeling the warmth from his broad back and thick coat.

There were days when the weather was so cold, the fog made the road blurry, Minh stopped at the roadside stall at the end of the alley, where the friendly saleswoman always had snacks ready, bought me a cup of hot soy milk or a bowl of steaming fried dough sticks porridge. The two of us both winced at the cold, and giggled at trivial stories from school.

Those simple moments are still intact in my mind like an old but colorful picture, sparkling like the night dew on the tree branches.

I stood on the balcony, huddled in my old cardigan. The wind blew through the leaves of the banyan trees on the street, making a dry rustling sound. The smell of dry leaves and a bit of moisture from the freshly watered ground wafted up, crisp.

The cold wind of early winter has come, blowing through the small streets, rustling in the dry treetops like whispers of the old season.

Now, I am no longer the little girl I was. Life has gone through many ups and downs, many changes. Grandma has passed away, the scarves she knitted have worn out over the years, I keep them carefully in a wooden box. Minh has also started a family in the capital, has a life of his own. I still live in this city, still watch the bare trees every winter wind, still drink a cup of hot ginger tea by the familiar window.

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

Strangely beautiful!./.

Linh Chau

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