Knitting season

In November, the weather turned cold. The streets were bathed in a few patches of dry sunlight streaming through the windows. A few shivers, shoulders pressed together, chilled the throats. Condensation blurred glasses and dampened the park benches as the sun rose. A few people doing their morning exercise put on extra warm coats, tights, and scarves… Their faces flushed red, peeking out from under their hoods that covered their ears. Winter arrived, along with the first cold winds of the season.

As winter approaches, people unconsciously yearn for warmth. Sidewalk iced tea is gradually replaced by hot tea. Noodle, pho, hot pot, and porridge stalls are bustling with people and vehicles. The calls of vendors, "Sticky rice with peanuts, rice cakes..." warm the misty streets. The night fires of street vendors' carts glow with embers, filling the air with the sweet, earthy aroma of honeyed sweet potatoes.

Winter brings a quieter, more tranquil pace to city life. Cold winds sweep through the city, making everyone want to sleep in a few seconds, walk a few minutes slower, savoring the lingering warmth. The streets become less bustling as a result. The melancholy of the weather allows for moments of quiet reflection on things previously overlooked. Suddenly, people want to warm each other. Hugs become tighter. Words of concern are no longer hesitant. A few apologies from those whose tempers have cooled after arguments are no longer difficult to utter. It seems the chill of early winter makes people more patient with one another.

In the old days, our mothers and grandmothers used to knit woolen items themselves. When I was ten, my mother would knit sweaters and scarves for my sisters and me. When my eldest sister went to university, feeling sorry for her daughter leaving home for the first time, my mother stayed up for several nights to quickly knit a pink sweater, and at dawn she rushed to the bus station to send it to her. The knitting techniques were simple, not elaborate, and the color combinations weren't complicated, but my sisters and I still cherish them and wear them to this day. We don't see them as outdated; on the contrary, they are proof of the love nurtured by time. No one can turn back the past, but thanks to it, we know how to appreciate the present.

Even though life is constantly improving and ready-made woolen items are readily available, every winter, when her eyesight is still good through her reading glasses, my mother still knits for us by hand, just like in our childhood. Each twist of yarn intertwines, tightly binding together the rare warmth amidst the city's chill at the end of the year. And it seems to draw closer those hearts that accidentally meet in the heart of the city. It's the tight handshakes of young lovers, as if afraid of losing each other. It's the rhythmic pats on the backs of elderly men and women during their morning exercise. It's the heads huddled together around a chessboard of retired people. Or the bunches of daisies placed close together behind the cart of a street vendor with a radiant smile.

The knitting season suddenly brings immense warmth to a bitterly cold, windy winter day.

Nguyen Van

Source: https://baodongnai.com.vn/dong-nai-cuoi-tuan/202511/mua-dan-len-68313ea/