Mother still lives at the hometown wharf

Illustration: PV

My mother went out into the yard to check the coal mine which was filled with white smoke.

- The wind is strong, if you don't look carefully, a hole in the coal mine will burn down. - My mother said as she walked, leaving me stunned with the suggestion I had made countless times: "Let's go live in the city, Mom!".

I didn't reply, just cleared my throat, enough to let her know I had responded.

The coal mine still quietly emitted smoke. The hamlets near the forest mainly made a living by coal mining, or collecting honey, or digging in the river to catch shrimp and fish. Life was simple but filled with joy, above all because people got to live in their birthplace, attaching their souls to this land and river that they missed so much. In the quiet night, my hamlet could only hear the rustling of the cajuput forest, the crackling of the coal mine, and the melodious sounds of the forest hamlet children reading their lessons, just entering first grade.

I followed my mother to the charcoal pit. The banana trees next to the pit were still green, with bunches of bananas, about to ripen. My mother bent down to fill in the holes. If the charcoal pit was not airtight, the wind would get in and the wood would burn out. The smoke made my mother cough and choke, and then tears streamed down her face. I looked at my mother, feeling heartbroken. During the days I was not here, my mother would surely be lonely in the house that had long been without my father. She would be alone from morning till night. My mother's life was full of hardships and difficulties. One time I felt sorry for her, couldn't bear it, and said to her:

- Mom! I can't quit my job and come here to live with you, and you can't live here alone forever. I can't rest assured! Come back to the city and live with me, Mom. There's a big house up there, and we can have each other...

My mother thought for a long time. I saw her looking up at my father's altar, then looking out at the small canal in front of the house. Her eyes were the color of white smoke. Suddenly, I saw her gently dabbing the corner of her eyes with a handkerchief. I held her hand, tears welling up:

- Mom! If I said anything wrong, please don't be angry. I just want to live next to you, so you can be at peace for the rest of your life.

My mother interrupted me:

- No, I'm not angry with you. You're right, it's just that I still miss this place, I can't leave my hometown yet.

The two words “leaving the countryside” from my mother made my heart ache. I had “left the countryside” since the first days I went to the city to study, and then the days I returned home could be counted on one hand. My house, my countryside, where I lived throughout my childhood, had now become a boarding house, a foreign land, although in my heart I still longed for this place. I understood that, in a short moment, my mother could not nod to follow me to the city. The city was familiar to me, but strange to her. There was no smell of charcoal smoke wafting in the air every morning and every afternoon, no rustling sound of cajuput leaves every time the wind blew, and no patch of land covered with wild grass that had kept for us so many beautiful memories.

For my mother, the homeland is flesh and blood, is the soul, is a beautiful paradise. From the day my mother wandered to this land until now, it has been half of her life. Half of her life she has lived, attached, loved, gave birth to me and then placed her heart in this place. My mother loves the river passionately, loves the cajuput forest where my father used to row a boat into to hang a beehive and then return with a beehive full of honey, loves the smell of smoke emanating from the coal pit and then spreading out to the river, giving this countryside a unique feature that my mother will never forget in her life. During those days, my mother had to work very hard. Yet she still felt satisfied and did not expect anything far-fetched or illusory. She was still loyal to the land, to the forest, to the river and to my father.

Looking around, seeing that the coal bunker was closed, my mother entered the house. I followed her. The flickering lamp cast a narrow halo of light in the yard. I felt my body caressing, strangely warm. As always, when I got home, I felt completely at peace. Several times I planned to build a new house for my mother, but my mother stopped me. "An old house is precious because it holds many memories" - my mother said. I listened to my mother, partly because I also planned to bring my mother to live in the city in the near future, so I gave up the idea of ​​rebuilding the house in the countryside. The house was old but warm, everything was carefully preserved by my mother, for decades it had not been moved or changed. From the city to the countryside was nearly two hundred kilometers, but whenever I could, I drove back, and when I was tired, I took the bus. Leaving my mother alone in the countryside made me feel uneasy.

Night covered the countryside, the later the night, the stronger the wind blew. The scent of cajuput flowers from the forest drifted in with the wind, so fragrant. I sat next to my mother, suddenly feeling time go back to when I was a child, sitting next to my mother like this, under the light of an oil lamp, my mother patched my father's shirt, and taught me how to spell each word... Those days were so beautiful and peaceful!

- I know you are grown up now, your life is full, so you want to make up for all the hardships I went through when I was young, but my child, to me this place is everything. You can have your own home, your own family, and I only have beautiful memories associated with this countryside. I can't leave you, my child...

I looked at my mother thoughtfully, and then my eyes filled with tears without me knowing. Old people often cherish past memories, they live for memories, clinging to a certain place just because that place holds unforgettable memories. My mother is living for that, and so am I.

- Mom! I'm sorry mom...

Mom stroked my head, then pulled me close to her. The smell of charcoal smoke clung to her clothes and hair. My mom said affectionately:

- Mom always wants you to have a place to return to. Mom will always be here, keeping the warmth of the house, keeping the cozy incense on dad's altar, and keeping your roots that you must never forget.

I understand my mother's heart. Her heart is tolerant. Origin is something that no matter where we go, we must never forget, never let ourselves be uprooted.

I sat next to my mother. The night was quiet. The village was immersed in a quiet sleep, only the sound of nocturnal forest birds chirping and the crackling of embers flying in the wind. In that simple yet warm moment, I felt somewhere the echo of the land, of the rivers of my hometown, of the vast cajuput forests and the echo of my mother's kind and generous heart. Someday, on the seemingly endless journey of life, I will be like my mother again, will cherish each beautiful memory and keep it for myself.

I leaned on my cheek, as if leaning on the river, on the homeland, on the cajuput shade, on the sacred, precious source!

Source: https://baophuyen.vn/sang-tac/202505/ben-que-con-ma-1ce28e9/