"Old Seasons at the Faculty of Humanities"

The new season's breeze has arrived in the streets. Its gentle, graceful movements envelop the youthful soul, stirring with the hesitant handshake between the tiny droplets of spring rain and the sunshine and wind of March. Each step is a memory, a lingering feeling, perhaps I will store it in the secret compartment of the old season. For the old season needs no secretary to faithfully and meticulously record the details of life.

Speaking of one of those tributaries, I'd like to borrow a line from the late musician Van Cao's song "The First Spring": "The ordinary season, the joyful season has arrived." That alone is enough to inspire me to sketch a few simple pencil strokes of a picture of my wandering years in Hanoi, under the roof of that charming little school. It was still the same years of diligent study in the lecture halls, learning from respected teachers, and enjoying time with friends from many regions who came to Hanoi to study – experiences that perhaps any student has had the chance to have. But for me, deep within those "ordinary seasons" lies the result of the non-accidental continuation of many other seasons: the season of farewells, the season of exams, the season of returning to school, and perhaps many other moments that linger after leaving those "ordinary seasons." Therefore, like a bird yearning for freedom finally breaking free from the confines of its heart and mind, I see "the season of joy has arrived" in the exhilarating memories of my early days at the Faculty of Humanities.

The day I chose to take the path to school, the sky was cloudless. The early morning sun shone brightly, like honey scattered across the roads. My heart suddenly felt light, a memory of the fragrant May rice fields filling my nostrils, intertwined with the summer skies at my grandmother's house. A memory surged within me, filled with excitement and profound gratitude. The familiar scent of ripe rice, the salty taste of the carefully selected dipping sauce mixed with sticky rice, filled my stomach early in the morning. My spirit felt strong enough to begin the new challenge ahead. I only waited to touch the exam paper, the rustling wind in the fresh summer air; then everything would be swept away by the flow of emotions and thoughts, allowing me to fully concentrate on what I was writing. In the pages I wrote that day, the image of my homeland merged with Nguyen Khoa Diem's ​​"country," with the deep feelings of a peaceful land. Perhaps the place where I entrust my heart and youthful enthusiasm for the next stage of my life also contains within it the people of my "country," of my vibrant and passionate homeland.

In the hazy memories of past seasons, I always recall my first autumn at school. A gentle and soft impression, yet deep and vivid. I, then a university student, quietly walked through the gates of the university that I had vaguely called "the university with big letters" when I was a child. Those were ancient, slightly old-fashioned autumn days, imbued with the scent of leaves and grass. I imagined myself listening to autumn. Falling on the steps, a gentle patter. Drop by drop, clinging to the long rows of power lines, like trains traveling north and south, stopping at deserted stations. The streets suddenly seemed endless. People's hearts felt distant. The schoolyard was silent in the twilight. A strangely peaceful feeling. A peace that didn't immediately stir up longing for a desolate place drifting towards the present moment, but rather a sense of enveloping, in a space close and warm enough, holding the entirety of my childhood in the corners of the yard, stained with moss like the roof of a house I'd lived in for over a decade. There were times when I found myself a place to take refuge and observe the linear flow of life unfolding before me.

Then came the old seasons. Clear. Sweet. The ferryman and autumn—I feel a certain something evocative about this image. Perhaps it emerged with a sense of wonder from some literary work. Or perhaps the image of the ferryman represents respected teachers? If so, that noble calling has chosen for them a poetic beginning, when the boat of knowledge casts its first oars in the melancholic early autumn weather. I secretly think that if people are also a bit of autumn crystallized within them, then my dear ferryman is a warm autumn, a vibrant autumn, an autumn full of passion. And another bit of autumn, which I always cherish in my memory. It is an autumn that is gentle, feminine, and as warm as a hearth fire. That autumn, I wanted to choose a gift, like the elegant Vong village rice flakes described in Thach Lam's writings, for my teachers—those who were "unhurried," leisurely, and gentle, guiding me like a naive and inexperienced young student. If I could create autumn, I would want to create an autumn without seasons. That autumn would forever retain the image of those distant and radiant years.

My old boat has passed through the tributaries of the river of time, immersed itself in the changing seasons, and in the blink of an eye, another journey has begun. The image of my boat, my school, is like a line from a poem by the poet Chế Lan Viên:

"When we are here, it is merely a place to live."

"When we travel, the land suddenly transforms into a soul."

Let's talk about the old season again. Actually, among the four seasons of nature, there isn't one called "the old season," but I still prefer to call it that. The old season is what passes and repeats itself with the same gratitude as when it first occurred; it's a drawer storing all the beautiful but fragile things, fearing that misfortune might shatter them into fragments, scattering them like dust particles of memory on the subsequent stages of life. The old season is also the sadness of youthful anxieties and uncertainties, of vague worries and sweet reflections untouched by bitterness. More than anything, when a season has passed, everything changes, like the transition from autumn to summer; only the old season retains its spectrum of joy and sorrow, with the hope of preserving sweet memories and cherishing what has passed.

Is the old season perhaps also a "waste product of memory"? There, we are captivated by the delicate taste of wine, "distilled over many years, bearing the dust of time," the rich flavor of cheese from cow's milk, the simple taste of straw mushrooms... All are gifts of nature, processed through extremely simple yet meticulously careful steps. Just as we still savor or enjoy the taste of past seasons, even knowing they are sometimes "crushed" or "stale." Regardless, the old season is a treasure we cling to as we climb the steps of life's journey of discovery. Therefore, old things, though not as appealing as new ones, sometimes stir free from their shells of waste and don a green cloak, accompanying us so that our self is no longer alone.

These are my last days at the Faculty of Humanities. I find myself slowing down. Every movement of my feet seems slower. Perhaps to take in the unique impressions that only exist here, at least in my small eyes. A cluster of sunlit flowers hangs suspended on the sixth-floor balcony of building E, the stubborn crape myrtle trees wait for the last rains of May before blooming, the two flamboyant trees, now distant, faintly visible in the hazy days before building M was rebuilt… Another season of crape myrtle blossoms has passed. Flowers fall on the school grounds, branches sparsely covered with blossoms. The morning mist weaves into patches, as if clinging to someone's shoulders in a pensive mood.

The seasons of memories are walking through my mind.