It is not for nothing that some people believe that only when winter begins is autumn truly autumn. At this moment of changing seasons, surely in each person there is an indescribable excitement. No matter how much we are reluctant, we must send autumn off into nostalgia. In this sunny land, the earth and sky bid farewell to the autumn colors with the chill of the cold wind spreading across the old paths... The streets are half-covered in mist... For me, winter is always quiet, carrying with it the nostalgia for my homeland. Deep in the heart of a child far away from home, that nostalgia keeps throbbing unceasingly. The months and years pass by. And that nostalgia seems to never stand still.
Illustration: NGOC DUY
No one knows since when people often attribute a series of cold and lonely adjectives to winter. In the rainy afternoons, the winter wind quietly blows through the clouds of hair, somewhere in these days there is still a slight shoulder shrug when the season comes.
I walked amidst the whispers of the wind, the old street winding on the wild slope. The early cold of the season was not enough to penetrate the skin but the homesickness crept into the heart. Winter, the days shortened and the nights grew longer.
The land and sky at the beginning of winter are dry and quiet beyond description. The streets are deserted. Each roof turns in the cold wind. Winter streets always have their own breath and rhythm. Winter memories return intact and bustling, awakening a whole sky of beautiful and warm childhood amidst the biting cold.
Winter comes, quietly like a clear stream, flowing from a source that never runs dry, not noisy but seeping into the corners of the soul that have sometimes dried up due to the hustle and bustle of everyday life. I rummage through the drawers to find a sweater, a coat, a scarf and a few pairs of old socks.
My father passed away on a cold winter day. The camellia bushes had drooped down beside the porch. The sound of the doves seemed sad too.
Since that day, in the winter of my hometown, only my mother was left alone in the kitchen. At this time, my mother must be quietly lighting the stove, boiling a pot of hot soapberry water to wash her hair. Winter away from home evokes so many nostalgic feelings; my heart suddenly flutters and feels nostalgic when remembering old things. Another season of being away from home, filled with endless longing.
Walking alone on the sidewalk in the rainy afternoon, suddenly thinking, the four seasons just pass by like the many changes in life. Time seems to urge something deep in the emotions of each person. The sound of the homeland is poignant. Winter reminds someone to cherish more the scenes that were once fresh and sparkling, now lying still in the memory.
Nostalgia is like a hibiscus flower, will it sink into oblivion? But perhaps it doesn’t matter, it is the change, the rotation and the movement of life. I like winter here. I like the first cool breezes of the season resting on the windowsill. I like the drizzling rain. I like the yellow street lights. I like the sad streets glistening with water.
I like the distant cries of night calls. On a quiet winter night, I put a few books neatly on the shelf and light a couple of candles, hoping to get warmth from the red fire. Next to a cup of bitter coffee, I pick up a pen to write poems to make winter more poetic and romantic. Winter poems will warm the heart in the lonely, anxious moments.
Winter has quietly come. Somewhere in the streets, the bustling songs of welcoming Christmas have already been heard. Suddenly, my heart aches as I look forward to the faraway land, where my hometown is freezing cold. Winter is as cold as ever, but please don’t make my mother’s feet numb. The wind, please be gentle and don’t blow against the path of the country vendors; just a little chill is enough to make my cheeks blush.
And please winter, please keep for me the memories of my student days on the way to class. Winter, quietly on the familiar country road, sends me a bit of gray clouds drifting here to comfort a sweet, distant memory.
Thien Lam
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