March is back!

1. More than just a dreamy, yet passionate memory, spring has begun to ripen, with the sky faintly tinged with the purple scent of the apricot blossoms of my homeland, and the kapok tree kindling a fire in the field after a night of fireflies lighting up the seeds of folk songs. I remember, and I remember again, a thread of poetry clinging to my school days when I was no longer so innocent. "Fireflies fly to the red kapok flowers / Mother at home has put away her padded jacket..." The poet Huu Thinh built a bridge of love for his mother from the tracks of a tank into the campaign like that. Fireflies. Flashing. Kapok flowers. Restless. Mother. The old quilted jacket that Mother wore throughout the cold winter is now taken off to dry in the sun before being put away in the chest.

Hoa Xoan (Source: Internet)

Perhaps, many soldiers of my generation remember their mothers in this way. The long and arduous road to the battlefield left very few quiet moments for mothers. So when we remember our mothers, we cling to the most unforgettable images. Mother of March, during those months of pale faces, poverty, and hardship, when the country was not yet at peace, and anxieties loomed large during the lean season.

The weather warmed up, easing Mother's chill, but it was difficult to find peace of mind when her sons were still fighting on the battlefield. Mother knew she longed, day and night, for her sons to return. Any day, any season, any month, would be fine, for her sons to return to the place they had left. So that she could cook them a bowl of rice, fragrant with the smell of wood fire, even if it was the last leftover rice from the bottom of the simmering pot. Mother longed...

Knowing all this, not every child returns to their mother. War, as a writer once wrote, is no joke. It is more cruel and brutal than anything else. Spring brings with it fierce campaigns, countless sacrifices; so many soldiers carry the image of their mothers to the other world . My tears once fell upon fireflies, kapok flowers, the riverbank, and my mother's quilted cotton jacket. Oh, March!

2. March. The sun is no longer just peeking through. The blossoming breasts of March, ready to enter my nascent dreams, awaken me, regretting the emptiness of a new, intoxicating feeling. Arriving at class, lo and behold, the March dress has erected a tower of youthful charm, making me feel as if I'm standing before a fairytale castle. I find myself loving literature class more than math class. I glance at March sitting next to me. Her cheeks seem rosier.

Hair is more layered. What else could it be, March?

Bombax flowers - Photo: Tuyen Quang Newspaper

There's a March day that evokes memories. I joined the army before I could give my March flowers. Decades later, March still seems to be waiting for me with its kapok and apricot blossoms. Purple and red. Which color truly represents March? How I long to embrace both. Both colors of flowers for a March filled with endless longing and remembrance.

I brought those two March flowers to the battlefield. As a sacred reminder, and also to engrave in myself the most enduring aspiration for peace . A belief in goodness and hope to resist retreat and defeat. People are easily crushed when hope is lost. Yes, I hoped that the crape myrtle and the kapok flowers would bloom peacefully in my country, my homeland, someday. Fortunately, that has come true, though at a very high price.

3. Mother and sister. No matter how much I love them, it's never enough... Oh, March!

Nguyen Huu Quy

Source: https://baoquangtri.vn/van-hoa-the-thao/thang-ba-tro-lai/184445.htm