Every season when the flamboyant tree blooms

Each season when the flamboyant trees bloom is a season of farewells. Generations of students leave school, leaving the embrace of their teachers to enter university, and then venture into the vast world of life.

Every summer, when the flame trees begin to blaze with red blossoms on the streets, a bygone era comes flooding back to me. It's the high school courtyard with its faded blue-painted windows, the late afternoons after school, the chirping of cicadas under the trees, and the image of my teacher standing by the blackboard, diligently teaching her graduating students. Just one season of flame tree blossoms is enough to bring everything back, vivid and clear, as if it happened yesterday.

When I was in 11th grade, a new math teacher transferred to our school. She came from a district school to teach at the provincial specialized school, right during a time when our class was in the most unstable period due to frequent teacher changes. For us students specializing in foreign languages, math was always a silent fear.

She came to class with a completely different energy. She was tall, had short hair, a clear voice, and was always full of enthusiasm. What made us appreciate her wasn't just that she was a good teacher, but that she made math so much less dry. The formulas and theorems, which were usually rigid, became surprisingly approachable and easy to understand through her lectures. I still remember those late afternoon classes. Outside, the other classes had long since left. The hallway was quiet, with the last footsteps fading away. The last rays of sunlight streamed through the windows, casting long golden streaks on the desks. Yet, in my classroom, she was still passionately lecturing. On the blackboard, white chalk lines connected in a complex spatial geometry lesson. Below, forty students sat silently, listening intently to every word she said.

The season when flamboyant trees bloom. Photo: NGOC SON

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That day, she chose me to participate in the provincial-level math competition for gifted students. For a student in a specialized foreign language class, that seemed a bit risky. I simply thought of it as a test of my abilities. But she didn't think so; she said, "If you're going to do it, do it properly." For almost a month, every afternoon I cycled to her house for extra lessons. We diligently worked on solving problems, and she corrected each difficult math problem for me.

That year, I won second prize in the provincial competition. When the results came out, the happiest person wasn't me, but her. Her voice on the phone that day still held the same emotion. Perhaps the greatest happiness for a teacher is seeing their students grow and mature.

Time flies so fast. It seems like just yesterday that we were all students, and now everyone has their own family. At the reunion celebrating our twentieth anniversary, we met our teacher again. Amidst the crowd, I recognized her almost instantly. The only difference was that her hair was streaked with more gray than before. Even after so long, she still held our hands and asked about our day with the same kindness as ever. In that moment, I felt that the teacher-student bond is truly sacred and enduring. No matter how much time passes, no matter how much students grow up and face the challenges of life, when standing before their old teachers, they naturally return to being little students, still respectfully addressing them as they did back then.

Each season when the flamboyant trees bloom is a season of farewells. Generations of students leave school, leaving the embrace of their teachers to enter university, and then venture into the vast world of life.

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But no matter how far one travels, every time they return to their old school, they still feel like they're coming home. And what could be warmer than knowing that in that home, the teachers from years past are still quietly waiting for their students to return?

LE NGOC SON

Source: https://www.sggp.org.vn/moi-mua-phuong-no-post857312.html