Lessons in Love

November arrived, and a gentle breeze rustled through the trees in front of the school gate, carrying the scent of yellow chrysanthemums and the faint smell of white chalk. The small path I used to walk was still shaded by tamarind trees, only now the teachers' hair had turned a few more gray. As for us, the former students, each of us has gone our separate ways, carrying in our hearts the image of those who taught us long ago.

There are things we learn not from the pages of books, but from the kind eyes and gentle voices of our teachers. These are lessons about compassion, patience, and even how to be a good person. When I was young, I thought teachers were just people who taught us to read and write. Later, as I grew older, I understood that they taught us how to live, how to love, and how to share.

I will always remember my seventh-grade homeroom teacher, a slender woman with a soft, warm voice. She often said, "The most precious thing isn't whether you're better than anyone else, but whether you're better today than you were yesterday." Her simple words stayed with me throughout my formative years. In times of failure, I would recall her gentle gaze, as if reminding me: don't give up, just take a little further, and tomorrow will be different. Then there was my literature teacher, who had a habit of standing silently for a long time before beginning his lecture. He said, "Literature isn't just for knowing, but for feeling." He taught me to listen, to look at life with eyes full of compassion. From his writings, I realized that behind every word lay a heartfelt sentiment. And perhaps, it was from that experience that I came to love literature, to love the small, simple things in life.

Back then, every time November 20th came around, we eagerly folded handmade cards, carefully writing: "We wish our teachers always happy and healthy." The teacher would receive the card, smile gently, her eyes sparkling with sunshine. As for us, we only hoped for a pat on the head and a simple compliment: "You're all such good children." These simple, unpretentious gifts were filled with love. Looking back now, I realize how precious those innocent times were.

Time has passed, the old school building has faded, but the sound of chalk still echoes regularly every day. The teachers still stand there, silently sowing seeds of knowledge at the lectern. They don't expect anything in return, only hoping that each student will grow up to be a decent person. Generations have passed, leaving behind the quiet figures who continue to watch over their students, like a smoldering fire in the long night.

There were times when I unintentionally forgot those years. Amidst the hustle and bustle of work, amidst the rush of life, we sometimes forget that we once had teachers who wholeheartedly cared for us. But then, every November, just hearing the school bell ringing in the wind, my heart softens, filled with nostalgia. I feel like I'm back in my school days, seeing my teacher leaning by the window, seeing my teacher diligently working on his lesson plans. Some say that teaching is about "nurturing people." But I think teachers are also about "sowing love." They sow faith and hope in the eyes of their students. They teach us not only formulas or theorems, but also how to love humanity and appreciate life.

November has arrived again. Flowers of gratitude bloom on the blackboard once more. I silently wrote "Welcome to Vietnamese Teachers' Day, November 20th" on the board, my hand trembling. In that moment, I heard the wind rustling through the window, and imagined the voices of my teachers from years past whispering somewhere: "Students, live your lives well."

And I know that, no matter how much time passes, those lessons of love will remain quietly yet deeply rooted in the hearts of every person.

Tuong Lai

Source: https://baodongnai.com.vn/van-hoa/202511/nhung-bai-hoc-yeu-thuong-3610e31/