The long-distance bus is about to depart. The longest reunion season of the year will roll away with the wheels.
If only Tet weren't as short as a banh chung, but longer than a banh tet, that would be great. Just a little longer would be fine, so I can erase some of the freckles on my mother's skinny arms - Photo: TRUC NGUYEN
The afternoon had already fallen on the brim of my mother’s hat. Her bent back seemed to sag lower, next to the carefully tied bag of gifts and cakes. I didn’t dare to look long at the wrinkles on her forehead. Even though I knew that reunion and separation were the natural law, my heart still felt heavy with feelings that I couldn’t put into words.
1. It was just the other day when my mother called to ask about the day off. The pickled leeks and the pot of banh tet were waiting for me to come home and eat together. All the excitement of the reunion season was hidden in the wrinkles at the corners of my eyes.
Since the day my father went to a far away place that mother and I could never see, my mother did not look forward to spring, but only to Tet. Tet is for reunion, for warmth, for sharing and comfort.
But as quickly as the flap of a dragonfly's wings heralding rain, the child had to leave home to make a living in a strange land.
The night before the departure, my stomach ached and I didn’t want to pack my luggage. If only Tet wasn’t as short as a banh chung, but longer than a banh tet, that would be great. Just a little longer would be fine, so I could have time to erase some of the freckles on my mother’s skinny arms.
Mom leaned on crutches, lit incense on each altar, and asked for a few boxes of cakes, a few ripe oranges, and a bunch of golden ginger jam; put them all in a sack, tied it tightly with a red plastic string, then she held a pen and shakily wrote my name and phone number.
Mom said the bus had a lot of stuff, and it might get lost. I sat by the well washing the tea set, looked over, and suddenly tears welled up in my eyes. I didn't know when I would stop making Mom worry, wait, and expect.
With no salary or bonus, I returned to my mother with only two million dong. But when I returned to the city, my belongings were not just the backpack from the day before. My mother put in it everything she could send, from a handful of chili peppers from the garden to a tray of rice paper dried in the dew.
2. Last year the economy was in recession. Provincial workers like me were also affected to some extent. Without salary or bonus, I returned to my mother with only two million dong.
But on the day I returned to the city, my belongings were not just the backpack from the day before. My mother had packed everything she could send with me, from a handful of chili peppers from the garden to a tray of rice paper dried in the dew.
Mom said the city has everything, but her children have no money. I crumple up a few 500,000 VND bills still in my pocket, my eyes stinging, thinking: "Mom doesn't have any money either!".
Tightly packing up the clutter, I told myself that next year I would try to bring back some tonic medicine to help my mother's feet stop hurting during the cold weather.
Seeing my mother struggling to move forward with only two million VND in her hand for the train fare, my heart suddenly felt like it was being cut with painful scars. Hurry, I have to hurry. Because my mother's time is now flying by like a shadow passing through the door, not giving me the chance to hesitate.
The sound of my mother's crutches creaked in the quiet night. It was almost midnight, and my mother was still busy checking the packed bags. Frost hung coldly outside the porch, condensing on the banana leaves. I got up, turned on the light, and opened the door slightly to look out into the kitchen. My mother's lonely shadow was cast on the floor.
I didn't dare call her "Mom", I just quietly walked over and sat next to her, wanting to say a few more words of advice to make her stop preparing gifts and cakes, but my throat suddenly choked up.
Tonight is really long. It seems like cold spring rain has started to fall outside the porch. Mom is sitting next to the bag of things with the lamp on. I am sitting behind the door with the lamp on.
The distance between us is no longer just a few steps. It is the distance of more than 300 long days to come, when two hearts, one old and one young, await a season of reunion.
The bus was still a few hours away, but I couldn't say anything to tell my mother to take care of her health, just a choked greeting: "Goodbye Mom, I'm leaving."
As long as there is father and mother, there is spring.Source: https://tuoitre.vn/thua-me-con-di-20250209110200758.htm
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