1. More than a wandering but passionate memory of spring that has just ripened with the sky faintly filled with the purple scent of my hometown's xoan trees and the cotton trees lighting fires in the middle of the fields after the night of fireflies lighting lamps and scattering seeds of folk songs. I remember, remember again a thread of poetry that lingered in my school days when I was no longer so naive. "Fireflies fly out to the red cotton flowers/ Mom at home has put away her cotton coat..." Poet Huu Thinh built a bridge of love for his mother from the tracks of tanks into the campaign like that. Fireflies. Flashing. Cotton flowers. Anxious. Mother. The old quilted cotton coat that my mother wore throughout the cold winter has just been taken off to dry in the sun and put away in a chest.
Xoan Flower (Internet source)
Perhaps, there are many soldiers of my generation who miss their mothers like that. The road to war is full of hardships and not many quiet moments for mothers. So when we miss our mothers, we cling to the most unforgettable images. Mother of March in the years of pale poverty, the country is not yet at peace, worries spread in many directions on the eve of harvest.
The weather warms up to make Mom less cold, but it is hard to comfort her when her children are still in the battlefield. She knows that Mom longs, longs day and night for her children to return. Any day, any season, any month, her children can return to the place they left. Let Mom cook for you a bowl of rice with the smell of firewood, even if it is the last bowl of old rice left at the bottom of a jar. Mom hopes...
Knowing that, not all children return to their mothers. War, as a writer once wrote, is no joke. It is cruel, crueler than any other cruel, cruel. Spring brings with it fierce campaigns, countless sacrifices; many, many soldiers carry their mothers' images to another world. My tears once fell on the fireflies, the cotton flowers, the riverbank and my mother's quilted cotton shirt. Oh March!
2. March. The sun is no longer budding. The breasts of March, a young girl, will be ready to step into my new dream. Waking up, I regret the strange emptiness. Coming to class, oh, the March shirt has built a tower of youth, making me feel light-headed as if I were standing in front of a fairy tale castle. I love literature class more than math class. Looking at March at the next desk. Her cheeks seem rosier.
Hair is longer. What is more, March?
Hoa Gao - Photo: Tuyen Quang Newspaper
There is a March day that often brings back memories. I joined the army before I could give my March flowers. After decades of separation, March still seems to be waiting for me with red cotton flowers and white xoan flowers. Purple and red. Which color is the real color of March? Why do I want to embrace both? Both flower colors for a March filled with endless memories.
I brought those two March flowers to the battlefield. As a sacred reminder and also to engrave in myself the most enduring desire for peace. A belief in goodness and love to fight against retreat and collapse. People are easily knocked down when there is no hope. Yes, I hoped that the xoan and kapok flowers would bloom peacefully in my country, my homeland one day. Fortunately, that came true even though it cost me a lot.
3. Mom and sister. No matter how much I love you, it's still not enough... March!
Nguyen Huu Quy
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