Today, on every street, the phoenix flowers have lit up the sky with fiery flowers. The 12th grade students reluctantly say goodbye to each other in the sunny school yard, the sunlight blending with the summer chorus of the first cicadas of the season, amidst the wavering nostalgia. When just yesterday, the idea of saying goodbye to the dreamy time, saying goodbye to student life was not yet clearly defined in the thoughts of the eighteen-year-old male and female students.
Drifting along the stream of nostalgia, I met myself in my white-shirt days. It was a long time ago, the day I reluctantly wrote a few lines in my last class diary in my classmate's pretty notebook, sending in there so many secret feelings. A memory that is still intact even though time has receded into the abyss.
The color of the flower is likened to “the color of the heart’s blood” and naturally becomes a symbol of first love, pure student love. The color of the flower is a commemorative baggage carried along, nurtured as a deep memory of a naive age. And then, many silent loves take refuge in the passionate color of the flower, forever throbbing.
The poem I wrote for Phuong was clumsy, without rhyme, without meaning, and perhaps only honest, naive feelings of adolescence, handed over as if wanting to share secret thoughts, for fear that tomorrow there would be no more chance to express them. Yet it also brought tears to my sentimental, dreamy girlfriend…
The last summer, that was the moment when everyone wanted to hold on to the rare moments, everyone hurriedly ran to find for themselves a few memories, just hoping that these days would not be lost in the hustle and bustle of tomorrow. The girl who was the best at literature in the class also had time to leave her handwriting on the white shirts of her friends with soft verses: "Memories, please don't fly away/ I will remember you forever in my life". Everyone was silent, as the lines of words were carved one by one on the tables, on the chairs, on the student yearbooks. Then they froze. Then they cried...
The boys who were usually mischievous and joking around were also silent. They all shared the same emotions, endless nostalgia. Outside the schoolyard, the royal poinciana flowers still burned red and then fell one thin petal at a time, sealing away the feelings, filling the entire exam season. All the anger and resentment of children suddenly disappeared, giving way to moments of love and appreciation, knowing that only next season, they would not see each other again…
The last class, the teacher's lecture suddenly felt warm and strangely attractive. There was no boisterous laughter at the back of the class, no teasing or joking, but somewhere there were soft sobs as if they didn't want anyone to hear.
Each shimmering phoenix flower petal still lit up with passion. Suddenly, I caught a thoughtful gaze looking through the window, lost in distant, vague thoughts. She must be thinking about tomorrow, about the premonition of a bright future ahead, and the sweetness of today, amidst the bustle of school memories...
I also engrave in my heart the memories of the innocent years, where there were clusters of flowers named nostalgia. So that today, walking among the passionate colors of the red phoenix flowers, looking back at the distant past, I suddenly feel sad and silently call out: Dear phoenix!
Source: https://baophuyen.vn/sang-tac/202505/phuong-yeu-6951b4a/
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