March, nostalgic memories of the misty land

Photo: Illustration

Not “March is the season when bees go to collect honey” like a lively song, March evokes in me the lingering, lingering memories of a foggy region. The Central region in March is the days of fog following each other, the mornings of fog following each other, the afternoons of fog following each other… That foggy region, for many years, has been gently hidden in me.

These days, the roads leading to my hometown are covered in fog. Fog hangs over the treetops, fog creeps into the paths and alleys. One day, looking at a series of photos taken by a friend in the countryside of blurry street corners and roads posted on Facebook, my heart suddenly sank as the fog guided the way.

On this foggy morning, stepping out of my small house in the countryside a few steps, I will see the “old” rice on Phan Dinh Phung street dotted with the last remaining flowers of the season, like warm fires burning on old branches. The beautiful cotton flower, to me, is not only when it is burning itself out on the tall tree, but also when the bright red flower falls very close to me. The petals are sweet and red, the pistils still soaked in cool morning dew. Some children passing by are surprised and happy when they see cotton flowers falling next to them, like a gift from the sky.

For children growing up in Vinh, when the streets were still full of cotton trees, witnessing many storms, many changes, trees being cut down, trees falling down... the few remaining cotton trees strangely seemed to carry souls. The cotton tree roots kept the bustling joys of childhood, kept the secret of dating in adolescence... I always squinted my eyes and smiled at the cotton flowers high up in the sky, like a greeting from a friend from afar. That habit has existed since childhood, until now, more than half my life, I have returned home.

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March remembers the dewy mornings, riding a motorbike from home to the countryside when the sky was still hazy. The road back to the countryside in March opens up scenes more beautiful than paintings: young green rice fields dancing in the wind, soft storks looming in the thin mist - the storks and rice fields seem to exist only in folk songs but surprisingly are a thousand times more beautiful and vivid in this life; long rows of xoan flowers blooming along the road, the light purple color blending into the magical mist, wafting a gentle fragrance; a flock of hundreds of white storks lazily gathering and chatting on the bamboo tops - the shadows of the storks and bamboos reflected on the blue lake surface always make me stop for a long time just to stand and watch...

In March, when the peach and apricot blossoms have long faded, the spring colors have stopped bustling, then even the wild flowers of the xuyen chi growing along the roadside, the white flowers with yellow pistils seem to appear and disappear in the morning mist, the grapefruit and lemon flowers modestly blooming in the garden also become very charming. The green buds also show their colors on the trees thanks to the cold weather, the warm sunshine. In March, even the young leaves with sparkling dew drops are more beautiful than jade because they radiate vitality.

I love my country road in March so much that, just by closing my eyes, I can imagine the cold mist gently blowing on my face, carrying the scent of xoan flowers, areca flowers, and a little grapefruit scent somewhere, mixed with the damp smell of straw and the sap rising from the grass and trees. That smell, which I once joked with a friend, is like a special doping that makes a person who has lived in the city for many years and longs for the countryside like me feel refreshed every time I return.

And how many years have passed, my memory still holds the image of my friend with curly hair waiting for me to go to school in the misty mornings. Actually, he waited all year round, but the image of his best friend wearing a colorful shirt standing out in the thin mist waiting for me in front of the gate is the most memorable. Opening the door, the mist was about to rush into the house, bringing with it a slight chill of late spring, looking outside, I couldn't see any sunlight, only the color of his shirt stood out, getting closer and seeing his bright smile was enough to make my heart feel a little happy, a little warm.

March is the anniversary of my mother’s death. Sometimes I wonder if it was because my mother knew that her daughter loved March that she chose this month to leave so that her daughter, far from home, would feel less empty when she returned. Would the return comforted by March, with the red kapok flowers, the red jujubes in the countryside garden, the budding banyan trees, and the mist and smoke of my hometown help soothe my sadness?

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