It was only the beginning of winter, but the cold was enough to prompt a group of people working through the night to light a small fire beside National Highway 5A. The flickering flames, reflecting off the reflective strips on their clothing, gave the winter night an ethereal quality. It seemed as if the fire was illuminating the past, making the embers of distant winters dim in their memories.

How could we forget those winters we spent wearing worn-out woolen sweaters, laughing cautiously to prevent our chapped lips from bleeding further? Those were winters with our feet soaked in the icy water of the village fields, catching shrimp and small fish, leaving our calves, once dry, scarred like snakeskin, and our heels cracked with the marks of hard work.

In the middle of the village fields, a few handfuls of hastily gathered rice stalks were enough for the children to light a warm fire. Small figures sat in a circle amidst the vast fields. Their hands, still stained with mud, waved over the embers, sometimes their eyes welling up with tears from the smoke because the rice stalks hadn't completely dried.

One of the most prized possessions of the village children during those winter days was a small, rustic stove they had handcrafted from clay. Just slightly larger than a child's palm, the stove held a handful of rotten wood, enough to keep a small fire burning, enough to warm their hands. The "fuel" for the stove was gathered from decaying tree stumps, mainly from old fig and banyan trees... The rotten wood pieces were porous and soft like biscuits, easily flammable and holding embers for a long time. Gathered in groups in the temple courtyard or the cooperative yard, the glowing embers from those small stoves, along with childhood stories, accompanied us through countless winter nights and seasons of memories.

Illustration photo: baonghean.vn

Occasionally, looking down at my belly, I see the scar gradually fading with time, but the memory of how that scar came into being remains intact and fresh; it also reminds me of the flickering fires of winter days.

At the end of my village, there was a very large bamboo grove. The dried sheaths—the outer layer of the bamboo shoots—were still used as fuel by many households during those times of scarcity. Some children would take them, tie them tightly together like torches, light the core, and the torch would smolder, enough to warm them for a short while. Sometimes, in a moment of exuberance, a child would run fast with the torch in hand, letting the strong wind blow the fire, causing the flames to blaze brightly in front, while the smoke behind swirled white like a motorcycle exhaust pipe. It was because I slipped while climbing the bamboo to pick the sheaths that a long thorn scratched my stomach.

When I tell this story to the children today, they find it strange, but in those distant days, even the worn-out straw brooms, after years of use, were used by the children to "warm" themselves during the winter. The more tightly the broom was woven, the longer and warmer the fire burned.

The winters of yesteryear were cold, difficult days, but also days of fond memories and affection. Carefully tending to the glowing embers of a fire, silently enduring those winters filled with hardship and deprivation, now, in our nostalgia, our hearts are filled with longing and emotion...

    Source: https://www.qdnd.vn/van-hoa/doi-song/tu-trong-ky-uc-nhum-lua-ngay-dong-1014549