A spring gift

I'm not a child anymore, but I still eagerly await the arrival of spring.

The wind gently caresses each leaf and blade of grass, which are turning to welcome spring. The small wildflowers along the roadside, which usually silently and resiliently endure the biting cold and persistent rains of winter, suddenly burst into bloom, displaying their vibrant colors. Children happily chase the yellow butterflies fluttering among the fresh blossoms.

Their stories weren't just about catching butterflies or picking flowers; they were also filled with pride as they talked about the new clothes their mothers had bought them, and how they planned to wear them and where to go during the upcoming Tet holiday. The Tet atmosphere was like that, carried by the spring breeze from the village roads into the alleys, reaching every house.

This morning, I went to the market early and stopped by my mother's house. I saw her busily tending to the marigold flowers in front of the house. The tiny blossoms were gradually revealing their bright yellow color, welcoming the new sunshine, just waiting a few more days to display their vibrant yellow hues to welcome the new year.

Every Tet holiday, my family always has vibrant yellow flowerbeds in front of our house because my mother is very good at gardening. The flowers always bloom right on Tet and produce large, round blossoms that brighten up the entire yard. My father and my younger brother and his wife repaint the house walls to make them look nice. Meanwhile, my grandfather is busy with the bamboo poles he just cut.

He split bamboo into strips, whittled them evenly and beautifully, and wove them into lovely chicken cages. What I liked most was watching him in this moment; he looked as kind as the fairy godmother in the stories my grandmother used to tell me when I was little. My grandmother came up from the kitchen, carrying a teapot, and poured tea for him while playfully scolding me, "You rascal, you're all grown up now, and you're still hoping to get a chicken?"

Without waiting for my reply, she turned to him and said, "Do you know how many cages we need to weave? Drink some water and try your best." He laughed, "Oh, don't worry, I remember everything. The more chicken cages I weave for Tet, the happier I'll be." Then, in a steady voice, he continued, "Three big ones to keep three capons for my daughter-in-law and two granddaughters-in-law when they come to visit for Tet, and two small ones to keep two small chickens for my two great-grandchildren."

"Oh, there was supposed to be something special for me and you too, bringing castrated chickens back to your hometown, but my maternal grandparents' village is too far away, I can't go back every year. Let's postpone it until next year, okay?" My grandmother smiled gently, her eyes looking towards the other side of the mountain, a hint of sadness in her expression as she missed her maternal grandparents' village, but the current festive atmosphere of Tet pulled her away from that longing. Her face brightened up again immediately.

Illustration: Hung Dung

His hands moved nimbly with the freshly split bamboo strips, and the charming chicken cage, still fragrant with the scent of fresh bamboo, gradually took shape. Along with it, countless fond memories associated with those lovely chicken cages flooded back into my mind.

As a child, I eagerly awaited Tet (Vietnamese New Year). Besides getting to go out and play in brand-new clothes, my sisters and I had another, even greater joy: returning with our parents to my maternal grandparents' home for Tet, according to the traditional customs of our Nung people. Every year on the second day of Tet, married couples and their children would bring gifts to the maternal grandparents' home for a reunion meal, as a way for the son-in-law to express his gratitude to his wife's parents and entire extended family.

Following that tradition, every time we visited my maternal grandparents' house for Tet (Lunar New Year), my parents would carry a chicken cage woven by my paternal grandfather, containing a castrated rooster, and a basket of sticky rice cakes, rice flour cakes, wine, and tea on one side of the carrying pole. We would have an endless day of fun with our maternal siblings, receiving red envelopes of money. And when we returned, my sisters and I would also receive a lovely young hen (which the Nung people call a "tac chicken") from our grandparents, kept in a pretty cage that my maternal grandfather had woven.

And so, as we grew up, each of us having our own family, we still longed to return to our grandfather's side, to sit and watch him weave those beautiful chicken cages. To hear him teach us that those lovely chicken cages weren't just simple bamboo sticks, but a symbol of tradition, representing the filial piety of grandchildren bringing their loved ones home to reunite with their parents during the spring festival, and also a loving gift from grandparents to their beloved grandchildren.

We grew up with each Lunar New Year, surrounded by chicken cages woven with such love. Now, we are adults, but we still love returning to our parents and grandparents every Tet holiday, watching Grandpa weave chicken cages, to relive our childhood. To realize how precious a family home is, because it is where our grandparents and parents have given us peaceful memories, sweet gifts like lullabies carrying the breath of our roots, nurturing us as we grew through the years.

Cotton

Source: https://baodaklak.vn/van-hoa-xa-hoi/van-hoa/202602/mon-qua-ngay-xuan-bd73008/