Chestnut blossom season

(Baonghean) - September closes the scorching summer, making way for the refreshing rain showers that usher in the sweet, cool autumn. On the hillsides, the purple rhododendron, magnolia, white star jasmine, and cloud jasmine flowers have gradually withered away with the stormy days, but somewhere, a faint, familiar fragrance still lingers. It turns out I've forgotten about the chestnut blossom season all this time.

It seems that, both regretting the passing of summer and longing for the coming autumn, the chestnut blossoms blanket the mountain slopes in a golden hue at the moment of transition between seasons. Chestnut blossoms are like a fruit; initially a delicate green, after days of absorbing sun and rain, their soft petals turn a sun-kissed color, then, after countless silent waiting, they transform into a deep, velvety yellow. On windy days, the fragrance of chestnut blossoms rises, permeating the villages and lingering in the air. In the quiet afternoon, I climbed the hillside to watch the sunset, startled to realize that the chestnut blossoms had turned a poignant golden, blending with the warm, slanted sunlight. Everything around me seemed so gentle and peaceful. Life became so poetic.

Chestnut blossoms (Internet photo)

Perhaps it's as if sadness is inherent in them, that from the moment they bloom, the chestnut blossoms don't reach towards the sky but silently droop to the ground, as if carrying a deep, hidden sorrow. Therefore, the seasons of chestnut blossoms are accompanied by sentimental, melancholic stories. My grandmother told me that long ago, a young man from a wealthy family fell in love with a poor girl who picked tea in the mountains. When his family found out, they absolutely forbade their relationship, forcing him to marry a woman of equal social standing and ordering his attendants to tie the girl to a large tree in the vast, deep forest. The young man, unwilling to disappoint his parents, abandoned her and didn't search for her. After waiting for days in vain, the girl died and transformed into a chestnut tree, emitting a lingering, intoxicating fragrance…

My childhood memories are always filled with the scent of chestnut blossoms – seasons of poignant nostalgia. I remember my mother bathing me in fragrant chestnut blossom water. At night, the gentle fragrance lingered on my hair and tiny fingers. I longed to keep my hands pressed against my cheeks, so that even my dreams would be infused with the scent of chestnut blossoms. Then I remember those afternoons going to school early, secretly peeking through the sparse fence behind the old, dilapidated school buildings to climb the hill and pick chestnut blossoms to fill my schoolbag. Sometimes, we were so engrossed that we were late for class, afraid of being punished. Looking at the stern eyes of our teacher, tears welled up in our eyes.

I always cherished and treasured the chestnut blossoms like a precious gem. Every afternoon after school, my first act was to show my aunt the bunches of chestnut blossoms I had picked at noon with indescribable joy. With her slender, rosy fingers, she carefully arranged the soft petals into a pretty bouquet. Then, in the evening, she skillfully threaded the blossoms into scraps of fabric to make fragrant sachets or pressed them flat between the pages of my books. Sitting at my desk, gently turning the faded pages, the scent of chestnut blossoms wafted out, captivating me. Suddenly, I found the verses so familiar and dear: “Golden like ripe fruit / Where do the chestnut blossoms hang? / The wind carries their strange fragrance / The road to school is bustling.”

Every year, at the end of summer and the beginning of autumn, without fail, the chestnut blossoms bloom with a poignant yellow hue, igniting a flame of longing that warms an entire realm of memories…

Phan Duc Loc

(Hanoi)