The small path awaits spring.

(NB&CL) The small paths winding through the gardens became the most familiar routes. Just a few steps along the hedge, across a patch of garden, and you'd be at each other's houses. Thanks to these paths, neighborly conversations became more intimate, and visits became less formal.

In my hometown, amidst the interconnected gardens, almost every house leaves a small path leading to the next garden. Whether the fence is made of hibiscus, chrysanthemum, or sturdier bamboo, there's always a gap just wide enough for one person to pass through. My villagers say that this path is for getting to the neighbor's house quickly when the lights go out. A simple yet warm pathway, like a way for villagers to draw closer in their vast, sparsely populated lives. In the countryside, where land is abundant and houses are sparse, the main roads are often long and far apart. Therefore, these small paths through the gardens become the most familiar routes. Just a few steps along the hedge, crossing a patch of garden, and you're in each other's houses. Thanks to these paths, village conversations become more intimate, and visits become less formal.

I grew up following a shortcut that ran through the chrysanthemum hedge to my neighbor's house. It was so familiar that I could walk there at night without looking, knowing where the tree stumps were and where to avoid the mounds of earth. Whenever there was something to do, my parents would send me that way to get there faster. Sometimes it was to carry a bowl of hot crab soup to Aunt Hoa's house, other times to return Uncle Thuan's hoe borrowed the day before, or to invite him over for a drink with my father. That small path gradually became an integral part of my childhood.

But for us children, the shortcuts were also paths to exciting adventures. During our afternoon naps, we'd sneak along those paths, crossing from one garden to another. Each garden was a small world , full of games, full of sweet, fragrant fruits waiting to be discovered. More accurately, it was a way for childhood to enter a fairytale. Not only children, but adults were also attached to those paths. At night, from my house on the hilltop, I could tell who was going to whose house from the flickering flashlight beams on the small paths. Those streaks of light are etched in my memory to this day.

The shortcut, usually bustling with activity, becomes quiet during the first days of the new year. People in my village believe that taking a shortcut at the beginning of the year brings bad luck and misfortune. Therefore, no matter how familiar the route is, everyone chooses to take the main road at the start of the year. We children were carefully instructed not to take shortcuts or stand at the entrance of the shortcut calling out to each other. This folk belief caused the small path to temporarily close, waiting.

Fortunately, there was still the thirtieth night of the lunar year, allowing us to say goodbye in the most meaningful way. The last night of the year is always a night filled with both anticipation and nostalgia. From the small alleyways in the neighborhood, flashlight beams guided us to each other's homes as planned. Despite the darkness, we chose the shortcut instead of going out to the main street. Beside the pot of simmering sticky rice cakes, the children stopped their mischief and listened to the elders recount stories of Tet (Vietnamese New Year) of yesteryear. These stories of a time of scarcity yet warmth, of the simple Tet celebrations of our grandparents and parents, captivated us in a strange way. At that time, we had no idea that one day we would become storytellers ourselves. My daughter now finds it hard to imagine those Tet celebrations of the past, but her attentive gaze is no different from mine when I was a child.

As New Year's Eve approached, the conversation paused. The children said goodbye to each other on the shortcut, heading back to their homes. It was then that I truly felt the chill of the New Year's night in the central highlands, the profound darkness of the thirtieth night of the lunar year. But it was only the chill and darkness of nature. From afar, the early sound of firecrackers echoed, adding to the anticipation. Just crossing Uncle Thuan's garden would take me home. The lights from each house cast an unusually warm glow. My father shone his flashlight, leading me past familiar trees and blades of grass. I silently bid farewell to the shortcut, because it would be "next year" before I walked this path again. Even though it was only the first few days of the year, the feeling of parting still left me feeling wistful. In just a few moments, the present would become the old year.

After the first few days of the New Year, filled with lively greetings and festivities, by the third and fourth days, once the ancestral worship ceremony was over, life returned to its usual rhythm. We took our usual shortcut. I was surprised to see that just a few days ago, the plants and trees were huddled together in the cold, but after a few days of gentle spring rain, tiny flower buds were already peeking out. Even though they were just nameless wildflowers, they were enough to warm the heart.

I walked more slowly, more quietly, along the familiar path I used to take with my friends amidst the hustle and bustle. In that stillness, a vague feeling of unease arose. On that spring shortcut, I realized I had grown a little older.

Source: https://congluan.vn/loi-nho-cho-xuan-10329459.html