Flowers arrive in people's hands...

"The New Year has arrived!" the children exclaimed as my mother took down the last page of the old year's calendar. Taking down the old calendar and hanging up the new one – for my family, this has always been a ritual.

After removing the last page of the calendar, my mother would always use a soft cloth to wipe away the dust clinging to that section of the wall. By then, my father had finished fitting the new calendar into its hard cover, removed the protective wrapping, revealing the first page of the new year with the bright red words - New Year's Day.

I don't remember how many years we performed that ritual together, how many months and years have passed on that wall, but I remember my father always reminding me: "You must cherish time, you must use your time to do many good things." Now, there are many ways to check the calendar, but my family still maintains the old tradition. We still hang the calendar, tear off pages daily, and still make notes on some of the calendar pages before putting them away in a paper bag.

There are many old calendar pages that my father carefully recorded about family events, such as the date my mother planted the first cabbage seedling... (Image from the Internet)

Perhaps it was the day my mother sowed the first patch of cabbage, the day the hens hatched their eggs, the day my father grafted lemon or pomelo branches, the day my grandchild got their first milk tooth, the day my father planted a particular flower in the garden... These were small things, but full of joy. That's why my father always wrote so carefully. I imagined that some kind of fragrant flower had bloomed in each stroke of his handwriting.

"By this time, if he were still alive, the gladioli and peonies in your garden would be blooming beautifully!" My father suddenly exclaimed as he flipped through the pages of the old calendar. My uncle was an avid flower lover. In the tiny garden in front of his house, in those bygone years, there was never a shortage of flowers. Sometimes it was osmanthus roses, sometimes violets, forget-me-nots, sometimes portulaca, sometimes marigolds. And during the traditional Lunar New Year, it was always ablaze with the colors of gladioli and peonies.

Flowers arrive in people's hands...

Every spring, there are always flowers that herald, welcome, and celebrate the arrival of spring, blooming in the hands of those who cultivate them. (Image: Internet)

No flower that passed through her hands failed to bloom profusely. We learned a great deal from her love of flowers, so even after many changes to the house, we always reserved a plot of land in front of our yard for planting flowers. So that every spring, there are always flowers heralding, welcoming, and celebrating the arrival of spring, blooming in the hands of the gardener.

The New Year has truly arrived! The children's voices rang out again as they discovered the first buds on the marigold bushes beginning to open!

Who taught you children such good lessons?

"That's Grandpa! That's Grandpa!" each child answered in their own way, engrossed in exploring the budding flowers on the chrysanthemum bushes and the peach blossom trees their grandfathers had cultivated for the Lunar New Year! Another peaceful day had begun...

Flowers arrive in people's hands...

And this morning, as the first page of the calendar opened, I quietly hummed that song – “Spring has arrived, flowers bloom in our hands…”. (Image from the Internet)

My father always said that tearing off an old calendar page each day in peace was a great happiness. Perhaps my parents also secretly entrusted many wishes into those pages, so that we would always have peaceful days and the opportunity to live decent lives each day. And this morning, as the first page of the calendar opened, I quietly hummed that song – “Spring has arrived, flowers bloom in our hands…” – as I thought of my uncle, my parents, and the hands nurturing the buds welcoming the new year. Suddenly, I wanted to separate that song from its subject matter to use it as an epigraph for my own story of spring…

Flowers arrive in people's hands...