Back to winter

It is winter now. The cold wind is blowing harder and harder on my skin. Your message makes my heart feel wild and nostalgic. In a place where there is no winter, after more than twenty years away from home, I have a longing that lasts forever, always wanting to return to winter…

Returning to winter means returning to the red brick yard where grandma used to sweep the yard with a bamboo broom every morning. Outside the alley, the trees dropped rustling yellow leaves, forcing grandma to sweep many times a day. The areca trees were quiet with the sparrows because they were busy avoiding the cold. I stood on the steps, my hands in my pockets, curled up in my mother's knitted sweater, looking up at the sky, my mouth puffing out white smoke because it was so cold. The fire in my mother's kitchen flickered, sending wisps of smoke into the air. The sweet smell of sweet potatoes and cassava wafted up from my mother's skinny hands. The hungry children thought of a delicious breakfast.

Returning to winter, we return to the village road dyed with the color of soil, on both sides of the road are rows of familiar tall eucalyptus trees. The village road in the old days was dry in winter, the wind blew up the dust into the sky. The village road bore the footprints of poor students going to school one morning, and herding buffaloes and cutting grass the other. Along the road were simple and lovely wild flowers. There were the gentle white-petaled xuyến chi, the sparkling yellow pistil, the small purple-hearted eclipta flowers, the purple-flowered clover flowers waiting for passersby to linger and hold on to their pants… The village road bore the imprint of so many sweet memories, lingering with the bustling sounds of my homeland. And that is also the sound that I always remember whenever my memories remind me of my homeland.

Returning to winter, we return to the fields of our childhood where the cold wind blows through the cotton trees in the middle of the field. My friends and I let the buffaloes and cows graze in the fields and then went to find straw and firewood to make a fire. The whole group sat together and chatted happily, forgetting the biting cold that was waiting to howl outside. The days when we asked our parents to bring us sweet potatoes or cassava to roast were a happy time. The winter fields, which were already quiet, were now even more bustling. When we were bored playing, we all invited each other to make kites to fly. Some of us attached a small bamboo flute to the kite, the whistling sound from above echoed down, melodious and deep.

Returning to winter, we return to memories of a time of poverty. The thatched roof and bamboo walls are still there. We remember the cold windy winter nights, lying next to our parents with a thin blanket, turning back and forth but still unable to have a full night's sleep. We remember the gloomy winter afternoons when our father meticulously wove each straw strand to make a warm mattress for the children to lie on. Our mother hurriedly bought wool to weave more scarves and shirts. The winter months were hard but full of family love. Our parents worked hard all their lives hoping for their children to escape the bamboo fences of the village, the hardships of the fields.

Returning to winter, we return to the years of volunteering in our youth. It is the winter nights wandering with the brothers and sisters in the city to give rice, porridge, blankets and warm clothes to the homeless wandering in the cold city. How happy we feel when carrying the mission of being a small fire to give a little luck. It is the weekends volunteering in remote mountainous areas. Seeing the children shivering in the cold makes our hearts ache.

Back to winter, to remind us of the years of hardship, to cherish this life more.