Returning to her hometown this time, she lingered until after the beginning of spring.

March was bathed in sunshine. The apricot blossoms were still sparsely scattered, but their fragrance still wafted along the roads from the city center to the suburbs. The streets resembled an impressive painting, rendered in the golden tones of the sun. Honey yellow, lemon yellow, and hundreds of other shades changed with each passing moment. The deep green of the Thien An - Vong Canh hills. The Perfume River's gentle waves sparkled with silver light. Small villages clustered together, warm with shades of light and dark green. Tall buildings jutted towards the dawn... We took pictures continuously. She was as joyful as a little girl amidst the spacious streets.

Her youthful days in Hue were a poetic river flowing through the city, a verdant schoolyard, and dusty ferry docks. Xep Market, No Market, and Dong Ba Market were filled with fresh vegetables and the lively sounds of shrimp and fish. There were also the grassy banks of the Perfume River, the slopes of Thien An Hill, the Gia Long Mausoleum, and the Thieu Tri Mausoleum... That river, the color of the grass, the color of the sky in that picture still retain a familiar scent, a gentle, cherished image...

While stopping at Con Hen to eat a bowl of corn sweet soup, I slipped my sister a photo from over twenty years ago. We were tiny little kids under a coconut tree by Truong Tien Bridge, looking into the camera and smiling broadly.

Remembering the photographer's promise, my sister and I were still eager to arrive at the shop early to secretly watch the photographer with the side-parted hair applying color—what people call makeup artists these days. The jagged frame was creased, the colors faded, but I remember how much fun we had.

We met again in the apricot blossom garden in front of the Imperial Citadel. Tourists in groups, guided by flags, stopped to take pictures. The pure yellow apricot blossoms spread their fragrance in the spring breeze, mingling with the faint scent of incense smoke. The moss-covered walls caught the light, creating unexpectedly beautiful scenes. We photographed the tea hedges as a backdrop for the light blue silk dress. She smiled charmingly, her gentle and graceful demeanor still intact.

The weather was beautiful. She stopped at a clam rice restaurant. Fresh herbs, sour starfruit, blanched bean sprouts, and pristine white rice noodles. Holding up her camera to capture the steam rising from the bubbling pot of clam broth, she whispered in my ear: "On a winter day in Berlin, looking at this photo, the sour, spicy, salty, and sweet flavors of today's rice will come flooding back, and I'll be overwhelmed with nostalgia..."

Every time she called from across the river, she would talk endlessly. She'd say how much she missed Hue. She longed for her mother's cooking, for the food from the market, for Hue so much she'd dream about it. She missed the cool, green spaces, places where people could find peace and tranquility. She missed the streets, like a quiet river, flowing silently, a gentle, graceful stream.

These visits, these reunions, are so brief. The moment, immediately afterward, becomes a part of the past.

Tears welled up in her eyes: "But what we want to preserve in these pictures are the warm memories of Hue. A distant homeland, yet its children still long for the day they can return."

White Leaf

Source: https://huengaynay.vn/van-hoa-nghe-thuat/nhung-khung-hinh-mien-co-thom-151996.html