In the days following Tet, the house suddenly felt unusually empty. Gone were the boisterous laughter of the children, and the crowded dinner tables that required extra chairs. The kitchen returned to its usual quietude. Mother still woke up early to sweep the yard and busied herself cooking, but each movement was unhurried, as if she were carefully preserving the precious spare time of spring.

Illustration photo: Vuong Dinh Khang

My mother's January lunch was surprisingly simple: a bowl of vibrant green vegetable soup, a plate of golden fried eggs, and a bowl of crunchy pickled eggplant. There were no sticky rice cakes or fatty meat, and no one bothered to mention any fancy delicacies. Perhaps after days of feasting, people finally understand that true deliciousness sometimes lies in the feeling of returning to the simplest things. Sitting opposite my mother across the simple meal, I noticed the wrinkles around her eyes deepening in the soft afternoon sunlight. She was still the same, still eating leisurely, still habitually filling my bowl with the best pieces, regardless of how much I had grown up.

Late in the afternoon, I went out into the yard and found my neighbor, Mrs. Hai, sitting quietly on the porch. Just a few days ago, that yard was bustling with laughter, the shoes and clogs of her grandchildren returning from the city scattered everywhere, and the fire in the kitchen never ceasing. Now, everything has returned to its former tranquility. Her children and grandchildren have gone back and forth to the city, taking the noise with them, leaving behind a spacious house. She said nothing, only directed her cloudy eyes towards the small alley, and said, "After Tet, the house will feel much bigger." My heart ached.

When I was a child, January in my eyes was a time of long days filled with joy. It was the time of bustling village festivals, the resounding drumbeats echoing through the narrow alleys, and the excitement of following the adults to watch lion dances and swing games in the village square. As I grew older, I sought out the outside world less, choosing instead to linger in my familiar room, surrounded by old, cherished things: my worn-out study desk, a pile of half-read books covered in a little dust, and a notebook containing my remaining plans from the past year.

In the quiet moments of the first month of the lunar year, I reopened my old diary entries. There were burning ambitions and unfulfilled dreams. Looking back, I no longer feel regret or remorse. January taught me to smile at unfinished business, because I understand that some things are complete simply by remaining in my heart.

    Source: https://www.qdnd.vn/van-hoa/van-hoc-nghe-thuat/nhung-ngay-thang-gieng-1027975