It's no coincidence that some believe autumn truly begins when winter arrives. At this transitional moment, everyone feels an indescribable sense of longing. No matter how much one cherishes it, autumn must eventually be bid farewell to memories. In this sunny land, the earth and sky bid farewell to the colors of autumn with the gentle chill of the autumn breezes that blanket the old paths… The streets are shrouded in mist… For me, winter is always quiet, carrying with it a deep yearning for home. Deep within the heart of a person far from home, that longing never ceases. The years relentlessly pass by. And that longing seems to never stand still.
Illustration: NGOC DUY
For reasons unknown, winter has been associated with a range of adjectives such as cold and lonely. On rainy afternoons, as the gentle winter wind rustles through strands of hair, there's always a subtle shiver of the wind as the season arrives.
I walked amidst the whispers of the wind, down the old, winding street on the desolate slope. The early winter chill wasn't enough to penetrate my skin, but a deep longing for home crept in. In winter, the days shorten, and the nights lengthen.
The arrival of winter brings an indescribable dryness and somber silence. The streets are languid. Each rooftop stirs in the chilly breeze. Winter streets always have their own unique breath and rhythm. Winter memories return, vibrant and vivid, awakening a whole realm of beautiful and warm childhood amidst the biting cold.
Winter arrives, silently like a crystal-clear stream, trickling from an inexhaustible source, not noisy but seeping into the nooks and crannies of a soul that may have been parched by the struggles of everyday life. I rummage through my closet for my old sweater, coat, scarf, and a few pairs of worn socks.
My father passed away on a bitterly cold winter day. The camellia bushes had drooped by the doorstep. The sound of the dove's cooing seemed to mourn as well.
From that day on, winter in my hometown was just my mother alone, standing by the kitchen door. Right now, she's probably quietly tending the fire, boiling a pot of hot soapy water to wash her hair. Winter far from home evokes so many mixed feelings; my heart is filled with nostalgia and longing as I remember the old days. Another season away from home, a yearning that never ends.
Walking alone on the sidewalk in the rainy afternoon, I suddenly thought, the four seasons pass by like the changing seasons of human life. Time seems to urge something deep within the emotions of each person. The poignant sounds of home. Winter reminds someone to cherish even more the scenery that was once fresh and vibrant, now lying silently in the realm of memory.
Nostalgia, like a hibiscus flower, will eventually fade into oblivion! But perhaps it doesn't matter; it's the alternation, the changing, and the transition of life. I like winter here. I like the first chilly winds of the season clinging to the window sill. I like the drizzling rain. I like the yellowish streetlights. I like the melancholic streets glistening with water.
I love the distant, haunting sounds of street vendors' calls. On quiet winter nights, I neatly arrange a few books on the shelf and light a couple of candles, seeking warmth from the glowing embers. Beside a cup of bitter coffee, I pick up my pen and write poetry, finding more charm and romance in winter. These winter verses will warm my heart during moments of uncertainty and longing.
Winter arrives silently. Somewhere in the streets, the sounds of Christmas carols fill the air. A pang of sadness washes over me as I long for the distant, cold homeland. Winter remains as cold as ever, but please, don't let it numb my mother's feet. Let the wind be gentle, not blowing against the path of the village vendors; just a slight breeze, enough to bring a blush to my cheeks.
And please, winter, keep for me the memories of my school days on the way to class. Winter silently travels along the familiar country road, sending me a few silvery gray clouds to this place to soothe a sweet, distant region of memories.
Thien Lam
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