I rolled up my sleeves to wipe the windows, sweep the yard, and busily help my mother clean up, just like when I was a child. Everything went smoothly until I touched the sewing machine in the corner of the house. The old sewing machine sat still, its paint worn by the years. With just a touch, memories flooded back like water overflowing its banks.
My mother was a seamstress. That profession raised my three sisters and me, and fueled our dreams of escaping our leaky thatched house during the rainy season. Back then, we were poor, and the most precious thing we owned was the creaky foot-operated sewing machine. At dawn, my mother would sit at the table, her foot pedal moving steadily, the needle gliding across the fabric. I used to think she never got tired, because I rarely saw her take her hands off a piece of fabric she was working on.
My mother still keeps the old sewing machine in the corner of the house, as if preserving a memory of a life of hardship that has passed.
The last days of the year are the busiest time. My mother takes on sewing jobs until right before New Year's Eve. People excitedly try on their new clothes, showing them off at the market, while my sisters and I sit and wait. The kids in the neighborhood had their new clothes a few days earlier, smelling of freshly folded fabric. I envied them too, but I didn't dare ask. My mother was busy. She had to prioritize her customers – those who paid her so she could prepare for the New Year for her family. As a result, the children of seamstresses were usually the last in the neighborhood to get their new clothes.
But the wait didn't last long. On the morning of the first day of the Lunar New Year, when my mother tried the dress on me, my heart brightened. The dress always fit perfectly, the stitches perfectly aligned. My mother smoothed the collar and smiled gently:
- Let's see if it's too cramped, son.
The fabric wasn't expensive, but the shirt held the warmth of my mother's hands. I wore it to wish people a Happy New Year, feeling more beautiful than anyone else, not because of the shirt itself, but because I knew that each stitch had been made through sleepless nights by my mother, through moments of backaches when she never rested.
There's one Tet holiday I'll never forget. That year I was twelve years old, old enough to feel sorry for myself, but not old enough to fully understand my mother's hardships. On the night of the twenty-ninth, the lights were still on in the house. I sat by the sewing table, pretending to read, but my eyes followed my mother's hands. She was diligently finishing a dress for Mrs. Sau – a regular customer in the neighborhood – while my fabric lay neatly folded in a corner.
The sound of the sewing machine clattering filled the air, and my heart sank. I waited and waited, but Mom still didn't touch that piece of fabric. Children can't hide their sadness, so I quietly went to the backyard and sulked to Grandma, telling her I was angry with Mom. Grandma just patted my head and pulled me to sit beside the pot of bubbling rice cakes. The kitchen smoke stung my eyes, and the firewood crackled. I rested my head on Grandma's lap, and my childish anger melted away in the warmth as I drifted off to sleep.
In the morning, I woke up in bed. I walked past the sewing table and... froze. On it lay a tiny, pink, ruffled-collared dress, neatly folded. The fabric was soft, the stitches perfectly straight. My dress! Mom had finished sewing it during the night, while I was still fast asleep.
A feeling of resentment suddenly welled up in my throat. I ran down to the kitchen. Mom was busy cooking pork stew with eggs, the aroma of coconut milk filling the air. Her back was slightly hunched, as if she had never stayed up all night. I hugged her tightly.
Mom smiled:
- Are you not angry with me anymore?
I just buried my face in my mother's shirt, muttering:
I'm not angry anymore!
From that moment, I understood that my mother's love wasn't found in explanations. It lay in her sleepless nights, in the perfectly straight needlework, in the still-warm New Year's breakfast simmering on the stove.
My mother is now over seventy. Her legs ache from rheumatism, and she walks more slowly. The sewing machine is still in the corner of the house, but it no longer creaks all day long. Occasionally, she wipes the dust off it and gently strokes the machine's body, as if touching the hardships of her past life. Seeing this, my heart aches, knowing that she poured her youth into each turn of the wheel, into the clothes that nourished us and raised us.
A mother sits quietly at her sewing machine in her small house on the eve of Tet (Lunar New Year), sewing a dress for her daughter. (Image created using AI.)
This year, after helping my mother clean up after returning home, I sat down at the sewing table and made a little dress for my daughter. My hands aren't as skillful as my mother's, and my stitches are still crooked, but I suddenly realized I was repeating something familiar and tender: caring for my child with all my patience and love.
There are things I didn't understand when I was little. Like how my mother always sewed clothes for other people first, leaving me to wait last. At the time, I thought it was unfair. Later, I understood that it was her way of ensuring the family's well-being, her way of silently bearing the burdens herself. My mother's love wasn't loud or explanatory; it simply quietly passed through the years, like a small but enduring thread holding together all the fabrics of life.
Watching my daughter toddle around in her new dress, I suddenly saw a glimpse of myself from years ago. Time seems to spin, and from a child waiting for her mother's New Year's dress, I've now become the one sewing clothes for my own child. And deep down, I know I'm still wearing my mother's dress, an invisible garment sewn with sacrifice, patience, and immeasurable love.
On the 27th of the twelfth lunar month, the scent of Tet (Lunar New Year) permeates every corner. I place my hand on the old sewing machine, its paint chipped and patchy with age. It's silent, yet I can still hear the familiar sound of footsteps from the past, the creaking that nurtured my childhood. Outside, the last rays of the year warm the banana leaves, and the wind carries the smell of kitchen smoke into the house. My mother is still busy in the kitchen, her figure smaller with age.
I stood gazing at my mother's back for a long time. I wanted to say something… then I stopped. It seems that in this house, love never needs to be expressed in words. It lies in the shirt she just gave me, in the warm meal, in the sleepless nights, and even in the moments of sulking that are then forgotten.
I walked down to the kitchen, wrapping my arms around my mother's shoulders like I used to when I was a child. I didn't say much. I just felt my heart soften, warm up, as if I had just put on the same outfit from a long-ago Tet holiday.
I love my mom so much!
Source: https://baoangiang.com.vn/ao-tet-ma-may-a477073.html
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