Missing the second January - Quang Binh Electronic Newspaper

(QBĐT) - The second of January has come, the sky and earth seem to have slowed down, quietly welcoming the last cold winds of the season. In my hometown, the lush fields still retain a bit of winter moisture, shivering to welcome the first sunlight of spring. The village seems to have awakened after a long sleep, carrying with it the scent of the land, of the water, of people's hearts longing for a new beginning. The second of January has come, the sky and earth seem to have slowed down, quietly welcoming the last cold winds of the season.

“January is cold, February is cold” the cold is no longer as piercing as the freezing winter days, but still enough to make people shiver in cotton coats. On January mornings, the sun is slow to rise, the first rays of sunlight are as thin as silk ribbons hanging over the treetops. Mist still lingers on the pond surface, wraps around each roof, and hugs the tall areca rows. The cold of January is like the last guest of winter, still reluctant to leave, but also does not forget to gently give way for the spring to creep into the village.

In February, the weather gradually warmed up, but the cold made my hands and feet cold every time I touched the dewy morning air. The young buds and green shoots began to sprout, like a sign of new life. In that cold, my mother often said: "This cold is the time when trees sprout, and the villagers work harder." In the remaining cold, my hometown took on a pure, gentle, and vibrant beauty.

Illustration photo. Source: Internet

In those days, from dawn, the whole village was bustling with people calling each other, the sound of the festival drums from the village communal house echoed everywhere, urging eager feet to run towards the festival ground. I still remember the feeling of excitement when my mother dressed me in brand new clothes, following my grandmother to the village festival. The smell of incense smoke mixed with the smell of the earth and sky made the atmosphere both sacred and intimate.

The village festival usually opens with a solemn procession. Colorful flags flutter in the wind, and groups of people wearing traditional long dresses and turbans march solemnly. I followed her, my eyes eagerly looking at each sparkling and elaborately decorated palanquin. The procession passed through green fields, along winding village roads, and returned to the village temple, where the elders were respectfully performing ceremonies and offering incense to pray for peace.

But what I looked forward to most was not the ritual, but the festival. When the drum beat stopped, the whole communal house yard suddenly turned into a lively stage. Folk games such as capture the flag, tug of war, boat racing or wrestling attracted a large crowd of spectators, the cheers filled the sky. We children were engrossed in blindfolded goat catching or climbing the greased pole, laughing out loud at the same time. I remember most the festival nights, when the whole village gathered around a big fire, listening to the elders tell fairy tales or sing Chau Van songs. The flickering firelight clearly illuminated each radiant face, the laughter mixed with the night wind made people's hearts feel warmer.

When I was a child, I loved the first and second days of the lunar new year the most. That was when the kitchen in my maternal grandparents’ house was always on fire, and my mother was busy wrapping small banh u and banh tet to sell at the market after the Tet holiday. I followed my mother around, my tiny hands still clumsily wrapping the green cakes with the fragrant smell of banana leaves. Every time I finished wrapping, my mother would pat my head and smile: “When you grow up a little more, you will be as skillful as me.”

The first and second days of the lunar new year were also the time when my grandfather would rekindle the stove to cook a batch of sweet and spicy ginger jam. The whole small yard was filled with smoke, the fragrant smell of ginger mixed with shimmering brown sugar. We children sat around, holding each piece of hot jam, chewing and exclaiming. Those were the days when the warmth seemed to seep into my heart, making me remember it forever.

This January and February, I grew up, leaving my hometown to work hard in the city. But in the first days of the new year, my heart still yearns for that warm memory. It is the scene of my grandmother sewing clothes on the porch, my mother smiling next to the pot of fragrant cakes, and the clear laughter of my sisters around the dinner table on Tet holiday. Every time I remember, my heart feels strangely gentle...

Linh Chau

Source: https://www.baoquangbinh.vn/van-hoa/202502/thuong-nho-gieng-hai-2224332/