Culture
This season, chò seeds drift through the air, their tiny wings twirling in the wind before settling softly onto pathways. It feels as if someone, unseen, has scattered a handful of memories across the breeze. I watch from under the eaves as each chò wing tilts and dances. The sight takes me back to a courtyard echoing with the laughter of children, caught up in the games we knew by heart — nhảy dây, bịt mắt bắt dê, ô ăn quan, bắn bi. Summer, in those days, wasn’t only about the blazing sun. It lived in the whirl of chò seeds overhead, the humming cicadas at noon, and the tender chaos of our childhood.