Tet calls home.

There are seasons in the year that don't arrive with noise, but with the scent of the wind, the salty breath of memories, and a very soft call.

Tet is one such season.

Looking back over thirty years ago, I often refer to those days as my childhood, as a way to be gentler with my own memories.

As a child, the arrival of Tet (Lunar New Year) was very clear: the family's rhythm slowed down, the whole world seemed to warm up from the small kitchen amidst the windy days, amidst the unique chill of the coastal region that instinctively drew people closer together. Tet was called by joy: new clothes, bright red lucky money envelopes, the warm, dry firewood crackling in the firelight, even the late-night dreams of watching over the pot of sticky rice cakes without fear of being reprimanded. And naturally, back then, I never thought about learning how to go home, because home was always there, right before my eyes.

As I grew up, I left my hometown to study, a short time but one that brought with it dreams and the awkwardness of youth. The city became more crowded, the pace of life faster, and Tet (Vietnamese New Year) began to appear in a different way. Tet was called by nostalgia. No warning needed. No words required.

It was just a late afternoon at the end of the year, and I imagined hearing the wind carrying the faint salty scent of the sea, of seaweed, of the earth and sky of my homeland after days of incessant rain, and of a small turning point in my life. My heart sank slightly. It was as if someone had gently touched my memories with an unspoken call, like a reminder that there is a place always waiting for me to return, without reason or conditions.

Tet (Vietnamese New Year) will be defined by love and responsibility as I enter my first years of working, quietly taking on a different role. Some Tets, I return home to manage everything myself, as my family is no longer complete. In the days leading up to Tet, the rain still falls lightly, the wind from the sea blows deep into the small village, and meals are often eaten hastily. The Tet atmosphere is still present – ​​in the apricot blossoms on the porch, in the rustling sound of the broom on the old, dark, wind-stained brick floor – but mixed with moments of silence that are hard to describe.

The demands of making a living make returning home difficult, with constant considerations of time, cost, and unfinished plans. Some people dread Tet (Lunar New Year) – dreading returning before they've become the person they promised to be, the person they aspired to be; dreading seemingly innocent questions that sound so real. But Tet has never set conditions for returning home.

And home is never a place for judgment. Home is a place that accepts people in their most imperfect forms, simply like enduring the sun and wind together, gathering little by little simple love. Home is a place where, no matter how tired you are, no matter how much you struggle to live, there's always a place to put down, a place to be allowed to soften without explanation.

The older I get, the less I hear the sound of Tet (Vietnamese New Year). Not because Tet has stopped calling, but because my heart has become accustomed to being filled with work, responsibilities, and worries. Now, Tet is called by memories. By the smell of kitchen smoke, the scent of incense, the smell of reunion. By seeing someone pulling a suitcase to the bus station, airport, or train station. By the quiet photos of family gatherings covering the passage of time. And even by the crowded year-end parties, when amidst the laughter and chatter, I suddenly find myself out of sync.

That call was enough to stir a pang in my heart, as if someone had gently reminded me that it had been a long time since I'd been home...

Now, having started working far away, the question "Will you come home for Tet this year?" suddenly seems strange. Because somewhere deep inside, the answer seems already there. For Tet, you go home – as a natural reflex of memories and love – like how people from coastal areas return to shore after long journeys through storms and winds.

However, not everyone can answer that call with a trip. Some are stuck because of making a living, because of responsibilities, because life doesn't allow it. But Tet (Lunar New Year) isn't measured by distance. As long as your heart still yearns for home, Tet will still call your name in a moment of remembering the smell of your home's kitchen, remembering familiar voices, remembering the feeling of being asked about the smallest things.

Tet, the Lunar New Year, is a call to return home, a call to reconnect with the most basic things: slow meals on a breezy afternoon, warm conversations shared in each other's complete presence. In a year where everyone is rushing, Tet is a rare time that allows one to stand still without feeling guilty. Time makes people stronger and more independent, but it also leaves them feeling lonely without realizing it. Tet allows us to listen, to remember, and to acknowledge that we are tired too.

If, as the year draws to a close, your heart softens late at night, don't rush to dismiss that feeling. It's not sadness, but a moment to realize that amidst all the changes, there's still a place that, without a name, you'll always return to. There, the sea still breathes its familiar rhythm, the wind is still salty as it was in the old days, and the little house still has its door open, waiting for the one who's been away for another long year.

Ngoc Duyen

Source: https://baodaklak.vn/van-hoa-xa-hoi/van-hoa/202602/tet-goi-ve-nha-4572f4b/