Wildflowers

The cold chill of winter has finally come to an end, giving way to the blooming of spring flowers, for the buds to open their tiny green eyes to gaze at the giant world . Migratory birds return to their old nests, animals call for their mates, young buds on branches open their eyes... All things sing songs of love. All are busy changing into new clothes, welcoming spring. And so are the wildflowers.

I decorate my garden and house with wildflowers. I don’t know when I started loving wildflowers. Was it from when I was a child, chasing grasshoppers and locusts in the fields with my friends, then enjoying looking at the tiny wildflowers that were as old as me? Or from when I started playing house, using flowers as ingredients for cooking, for makeup and putting them in the bride’s hair and groom’s clothes when playing wedding games?

It could also be from the time I saw the rafts of purple Water Hyacinths, the pure white flowers of the Chinese Cyperus, the pinkish-red Mimosa or the yellow color like drops of sunlight resting on the green carpet of the leaves of the Indian Gotu Kola. And the red hibiscus hedge someone planted like the sun setting on the mountain. The white water lilies like the shirts I wear to school growing near the sunflowers as big as a thumb, round like a pretty white candy. Or the purple-pink Thunderflowers (many places call them Water Lily) like the sunset? ... I don't remember anymore.

I only know that if I don’t see them for a day, I feel like something is missing. So I often invite my childhood friend in the neighborhood named Phuong to watch the wildflowers in the fields. We tell each other dozens of endless stories every day without getting bored. One day Phuong showed me the Vietnamese coriander flowers that had just bloomed in her garden. This was the first time I saw the Vietnamese coriander flower in bloom. Each flower is like a white star, as big as the tip of three toothpicks, evoking a feeling of fragility in the viewer. I bent down, gently touched my nose to the flower, closed my eyes to feel its light, pungent smell.

Suddenly, I felt like the flowers and I were the embodiment of each other. The flowers were not flashy in color, nor did they have a seductive scent, but were simply white, just like me. I did not inherit my mother's beauty and cleverness. I inherited my father's handsome features. Unfortunately, my father's face was only beautiful on a man's body. I was like a crude background for my close friends to show off their beauty when walking together. Despite the curious and unfriendly glances directed at me, I still walked confidently.

Sometimes I even gave them a polite smile instead of a greeting. Why should I be self-conscious and shrink into my shell with invisible fear because of those strangers? I am ugly but I know how to listen to my parents, get compliments from neighbors and have many good friends. I am optimistic in every thought. Because Phuong told me before. "It's not your crime to be born ugly! There's no need to bow your head! You yourself don't want to be like that. Only those who live a bad life should be ashamed. Slandering and belittling other people's appearance is also a crime.

"They are the ones who should bow their heads, not you!" Phuong's advice saved me from pessimistic thoughts about appearance from that moment on. I engraved this saying and the image of my beautiful friend, both in appearance and virtue, deep into my heart, going through times with an always optimistic demeanor, like a wild flower that, regardless of the world's lips and eyes, still proudly offers flowers to life.

Since then, I have understood that not only knives or metal objects are sharp. Because human words are sometimes more dangerous and frightening. They can save or drown people or fall into the sea of despair at any time. Therefore, I often think carefully before saying anything that can affect the mood of others. And of course, I always talk less when in a crowd. But I am not insignificant. Like the flower of Vietnamese coriander, which has a pungent smell that cannot be confused with any other flower.

Phuong laughed and said I was sentimental. I told Phuong that I was heartless. We argued and argued. But we didn't stay angry for long. Later, Phuong passed the university entrance exam and went to Hanoi to pursue her dream of becoming a French teacher. We have been apart since then. Every time I see the Vietnamese coriander flowers, I miss this lovely friend. Memories like blooming petals come back. Perhaps you have forgotten the song I composed myself with oral music. Because back then, I didn't have the chance to study music like now, titled "Missing the Vietnamese coriander flowers". Until now, every time I think of you, I still hum: "Looking at that flower, I miss you. Missing that smile as bright as a flower... Do you still keep in your soul the pure white petals here?..." The feeling of not being able to see wild flowers is like the feeling of missing you, Phuong!

(According to Vu Tuyet Nhung/ tanvanhay.vn)

Wildflowers