Mùa hoa gạo phố Vinh

(Baonghean) - Surely, when I mention kapok flowers, you think I'm dreaming of some rural area? A rural area with vast fields and meadows, where kapok trees in March blaze with fiery red blossoms reaching towards the sky. These flames ignite memories and longing, flames that seem to want to warm and comfort people during the cold spell of the "Nang Ban" season, along with the sighs that seem so long ago on my grandmother's lips: "March, the eighth...it will be so long..."

But no, I'm telling you about my flower season. The season of kapok flowers in Vinh City. When clusters of purple crape myrtle flowers seem to carelessly release their fragrance from the remaining bare branches at the corner of buildings C4 and C5 on Quang Trung Street. But the city is so noisy, so the crape myrtle flowers must lie dormant, waiting for nightfall, offering themselves to a wanderer who has left their hometown for the city, who each night, as if by chance, opens their balcony door and unexpectedly encounters the scent, as if touching a heart-wrenching longing… And that's when the kapok flowers, with their different character, fierce and vibrant, will awaken you with a dazzling shock. You can't help but be mesmerized, captivated by that vibrant red color one morning, full of bold surprise, that has dyed a whole section of the city red. Oh, it's kapok flowers. Kapok flowers on Quang Trung Street, kapok flowers along Phan Dinh Phung Street… Kapok flowers knock on the door of March: Knock, knock, knock… Spring is passing by!

The kapok tree by Quang Trung street. Photo: Le Thang

I'm not from Vinh, but I once confessed that I fell in love with the kapok flowers of Vinh. They're like an old, cherished mark on a city that's constantly evolving. They keep reminding those who bring their rural spirit to the city. They keep burning brightly, saying that nothing is forgotten. And they also remind those who are carelessly rushing through the streets that time flies. Just yesterday or the day before, the blossoms were soaring like flames in the sky, but this morning, their red petals lie lifeless by the roadside, on the paving stones, amidst the sighs of regret from the photographer who was engrossed in spring festivals somewhere, and who, passing through the streets this afternoon, reproached himself: "So I've missed a season of flowers..."

Rice blossoms have fallen along the street. Photo: Duy Hung

And, on a more personal note, it brought me a kindred spirit... I'm talking about a girl I've never met, but we can chat for hours through written words. She's from Vinh City, but now she's settled in Saigon. Life is strange; it brought me to this city, and took people from Vinh far from home... You told me about your longing for the city, about the names of the alleys, the streets you walked, your memories, your stumbles, your beautiful, dreamlike schoolgirl romances... Surely, it's because we share a love for Vinh City. The love of someone far away who always yearns to return, and of someone who came and can't leave...

You said you always fondly remember the lazy kapok trees that slept from winter into spring in Vinh city. Rough, sullen, and dry, seemingly devoid of life. And one spring morning, when the March mist, soft as a thin veil, draped over the small city, you encountered flower buds on your way to school—buds that had appeared at some unknown time—suddenly turning a delicate red, like candles lit on the tree. And just a day or two later, those candles would unfurl their vibrant red petals, overflowing with warmth and pride.

The kapok tree by Phan Dinh Phung street remained faithful to you like an old friend. Beneath its roots sat a small tea stall run by an old woman in her sixties. A few times, you and your close friend from nearby would go there to have a drink. You'd excitedly tell him about your crushes on this guy and dislikes that guy, unaware that he was secretly smiling but inwardly scolding you for not noticing the person sitting right beside you. And you only realized this when you were both far apart.

You don't remember the old woman's name, but once you saw your father riding his bicycle to the market to sell charcoal, she asked about you. Knowing you had a husband and children and were doing well, she smiled with great satisfaction, as if she were talking about a dear grandchild she hadn't seen in a long time. Your father told you about it, and you remember the sweet, slightly bitter, and intensely fragrant taste of the green tea she poured for you. The bowl of green tea sat on a brown wooden table, occasionally disturbed by the rustling of falling kapok flowers beside it, creating a startling silence. Among your countless memories, you mentioned the kapok trees in Vinh City so often.

The rice blossoms, which yesterday were hidden somewhere within the rough bark, have today burst into brilliant bloom. Photo: Duy Hung

You mentioned the kapok tree by Quang Trung Street, right above your best friend's apartment building. She lives on the 5th floor, and you two often climb up there to gaze down at the vibrant red blossoms, telling each other stories about the girl A-Xon in the story "The Crimson Sail." For some reason, you both felt a strong connection between the crimson sails and the bright red kapok blossoms that reached halfway up your eyes. You thought of a poor, dreamy girl like yourself, as pure as you, thinking of a prince who only needed a fortune and a kind heart. That was enough. Now, the old, dilapidated apartment buildings have been replaced by new ones. Thankfully, that kapok tree is still there. It's a witness to the changes in the street, and in the lives of each person. Every time you rush back from the sunny, windy South, you still find an excuse to pass by Quang Trung Street, just to look up at that old canopy of trees, to dream again of the crimson sails...

You remember most vividly the kapok tree blooming right in front of your house, across the street from the cooperative's courtyard. You said it was the Tan Thanh or Tan Tien Cooperative, something like that. It was near your house on Nguyen Cong Tru Street. Once, you and your mother were cleaning the house together, and the wet floor reflected the image of the ancient kapok tree, its branches covering the entire room. The sunlight carried the shadows of red flowers, young lemon-colored leaves, and old brown branches, imprinted on the patterned tiles, which were only a hand's width apart, creating a beautiful sight. Occasionally, when the wind blew, those images would gently tremble. You would stand there gazing in wonder for a few minutes. Your mother jokingly said, "We don't need to arrange flowers; our house is already full of them." It's been a long time since you suddenly remembered that memory, now that your mother is gone, and your eyes well up with tears. You remember that your mother – a hardworking woman from the city – never thought about buying flowers except during the three days of Tet (Lunar New Year). You cherish those blossoms that filled your house.

The kapok tree by the cooperative's yard is linked to your childhood. The ancient kapok tree was so tall that you never imagined you could pick its flowers; you immediately thought of gathering the fallen blossoms. Looking out from your house, it felt like the tree was only a few arm's length away. But to stand under its trunk, you had to walk around a distance because the cooperative was surrounded by a long wall. Once, when you went around it, the children in the cooperative's yard looked at you strangely, not letting you touch even the fallen blossoms. Children always seem to possess things in a rather unreasonable way. You went home and thought, "If only that wall didn't exist."

Once, indeed, the wall was torn down, long after the city's cooperatives had been dissolved. The land that once belonged to the cooperatives became expensive to rent out for restaurants, hotels, and cafes, and the old kapok tree was cut down without your knowledge while you were away studying. All you know is that even now, you sometimes stand on your doorstep and see the image of the old kapok tree brilliantly blooming every March. You smile when you think about it, a smile as fondly as remembering a dear friend you haven't seen in a very long time.

Around this time last year, your mother's final days. Sometimes, in moments of peace between her pains, she would say she didn't know when she would feel a little better so that Huong could take her back to Saigon to have her bile duct replaced. She said that once the doctor replaced it, she would be pain-free, like in November. Then she would be able to go to the market, sweep the house, and cook again. You told her to try to eat to regain her strength, coaxing her with spoonfuls of rice and water. You never let her know that her health was only measured in days. And later, when your heart was filled with overwhelming despair, wanting only to scream and cry because you knew you couldn't keep her here, you would leave the house and wander around. Just a few steps from your house was an ancient kapok tree at the beginning of the road leading to Hong Son Temple. Standing under the tree, looking up at its bare, bony branches covered in red blossoms against the backdrop of the gray, cloudy sky, you felt as if someone was gently comforting you...

And Huong, I know that when I recall these memories with you, you'll surely cry again. March has come again, and you're in a place without a single kapok tree. The weather where you live isn't suitable for this type of tree. You keep asking: Will our street cut down the old kapok trees? You fear that one day you'll return and there will be no kapok trees left. It must be very unsettling. But Huong, the kapok trees on our street have begun to burst into bloom. Just one kapok tree is enough to create an entire season of flowers in our Vinh city...

Thuy Vinh - Vo Huong