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| The flame trees bloom profusely when May arrives. Photo: Contributor |
My childhood was spent in a coastal countryside, where the summer afternoons were sweltering, cicadas chirped in the trees, and the flame trees blazed red every May. The schoolyard was a large open space, dotted with flame trees and crape myrtle. Whenever the flowers bloomed, the students would excitedly break off branches and press them into their notebooks, creating simple yet cherished keepsakes. Some would even pick the flowers, peel off the petals, and arrange them into butterfly or heart shapes, then hide them in the desks of their crushes. Naive and clumsy – but it was a very genuine way of showing affection.
The blooming of the flamboyant tree signals the approaching exam season. Every time I see it bloom, an indescribable feeling wells up inside me. I feel nervous about the end-of-year exams, anxiously awaiting the school bell to signal farewell, and quietly taking in each moment of our last moments together. But at the same time, it's also when I realize I'm growing up, having to leave something familiar behind. That feeling of first knowing what it means to miss, to cherish, to regret... is when I see the flamboyant petals fall.
Years later, that land has changed. The roads have widened, the neighborhoods have become more modern, but the old flame trees still stand silently in the corners of schoolyards, by the roadside, or nestled against old mossy walls. I have traveled through many cities, witnessed many seasons of flame tree blossoms, but nowhere has my heart been stirred as much as when I encountered the red color of my hometown. Perhaps it's because, deep down, I carry the memories of a land of sunshine and wind, where feelings are simple and sincere, where flame trees are a part of my childhood.
I returned after many years away. The seaside city welcomed me with its salty scent and vibrant red flame trees lining the streets. I stood for a long time in front of my old school gate. Now a spacious new school stands there, but the old flame tree remains. Its broad canopy, like a large arm, shelters memories, a gentle reminder: childhood is still here, we just moved on too quickly.
The flame tree is more than just a flower. It is time. It is youth. It is unspoken words. It is summers that cannot be named.
People often say, "Summer is the season of farewells, and the flamboyant tree is a witness to those silent partings." But for me, the flamboyant tree is not only associated with tears, but also symbolizes friendship, the bond between teacher and student, and days lived fully without calculation. The flamboyant tree doesn't have the fragrant scent of the milk flower, nor the elegance of the rose, but it leaves a lasting impression with its breathtakingly vibrant beauty – the brilliance of a time that can never be returned.
The phoenix flower is also a reminder of time – something that can never be held back. The clusters of phoenix flowers bloom and then fade like an unchanging cycle. Just like school days, they blossom and then pass. We grow up, go our separate ways, and then suddenly one day, amidst the bustling city, we see a cluster of red flowers and our hearts sink – as if we are seeing ourselves in those carefree years again.
Someone once said, "The flamboyant tree is the flower of first loves." Perhaps it's true. So many school romances have blossomed under the shade of flamboyant trees, only to quietly fade away with the passing years. But the flamboyant tree still blooms every season, like a gentle repetition, like a whisper: live each moment to the fullest, because the most beautiful things never repeat themselves.
The schoolyards are now filled with new students. Innocent eyes and pure dreams begin anew beneath the red blossoms of the flame tree. The fluttering white dresses, the echoing cicadas, the silently falling clusters of flame tree blossoms – a gentle and profound summer symphony. Though time may change people and scenery, that beauty remains, pure and enduring, just as the flame tree blazes with fiery red each summer.
I know that one day, the old flame tree in the old schoolyard might be gone. That street corner might be replaced by a new row of buildings. But in my heart—and in the hearts of so many others—that red color will always burn brightly like the flame of memory. The flame tree is not just a flower. It is time. It is youth. It is unspoken words. It is summers that cannot be named.
Source: https://baophuyen.vn/xa-hoi/202505/khi-phuong-no-trong-long-ky-uc-d8a2094/
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