Saigon's winter isn't as bitterly cold as Hanoi's; it's gentle, capricious, and subtle, enough to make people suddenly remember, feel affection for, or love something often intangible—like a breeze, a quiet alley, a yellow leaf falling aimlessly, or simply a gentle corner of a park where a young woman's figure briefly passes by. Saigon's winter makes those far from home feel more pity for their own fate, for those drifting through life.
For nearly ten years wandering in Saigon, every year, when the north wind arrives, I intensely miss my hometown. Some memories are specific, but others are vague. Among them, my mother and our small, simple but tidy thatched-roof house are at the top of my list of memories. I remember my mother's small, solitary figure sitting and fishing for minnows under the pier in the twilight. I remember the wisps of blue smoke rising from the kitchen behind the house, and sometimes the fragrant ashes under the wood-fired rice cooker. The longing for home is strange, especially in the days after the beginning of winter. A palm leaf lying haphazardly by the roadside, the winding dirt road covered with yellow leaves and pebbles, the fading sunlight of the setting sun, a rooster's crow in the quiet garden, or simply a child's call from across the river: "Hey... Teo..." This rustic yet peaceful picture of the countryside stirs my soul whenever Tet (Lunar New Year) approaches. And so, our homeland always beckons us to return, with its simple yet heartfelt images of the countryside in the final months of the year.
I remember, back when I was struggling in Saigon, doing all sorts of jobs to survive and send money back to my mother for her medical treatment, I often couldn't sleep or slept soundly when the eleventh lunar month arrived. The worries about food, clothing, and money at the end of the year were accompanied by an intense longing for home. Just imagining people back home preparing for Tet (Lunar New Year) filled my heart with excitement. My sleep was therefore often interrupted and restless. How big are the marigolds my mother planted around the 15th of the tenth lunar month? Are the kalanchoe plants doing well? Are the gourds, bitter melons, and pumpkins bearing fruit yet? Has Uncle Hai's house next door opened its rice flour mill for making rice cakes? At this time of year, Aunt Bay's house would have already opened its rice cake making oven; she'd get up at two in the morning to light the fire, the scent of coconut leaf smoke filling the whole neighborhood. I wonder if she'll still have the strength to sit and make rice cakes this year? Is the bustling makeshift market near my house now filled with the sounds of ripe tamarind, grated coconut, and winter melon for the aunts and sisters to make Tet jam? Each question evokes beautiful memories flooding back into the subconscious of someone far from home, longing for the simple, innocent, and incredibly familiar days of preparing for Tet in my hometown.
There's a sound that always rises in my memory when Tet (Vietnamese New Year) is approaching: the sound of pounding rice flour for making rice cakes. Thump, thump, thump... Thump, thump... The pounding and mixing of the flour is done with such rhythmic movements, the sound like a beat in the quiet night. The listener imagines it as the heartbeat of their homeland, and knows that when these sounds begin to echo through the village, spring is surely coming.
Source: https://thanhnien.vn/nhan-dam-mua-xuan-sap-ve-185260131154306487.htm
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