The hearth fire on a winter afternoon in my mother's hometown

...The winter afternoon arrives very gently. Not as noisy as a summer rain, not as dazzling as the golden autumn sun, the winter afternoon in my mother's hometown usually comes with the biting wind that blows through the narrow lanes, with the lingering scent of smoke from the thatched roofs, with the hurried sound of chickens searching for a place to sleep as the day begins to fade. And in my memory, the winter afternoon is always associated with the hearth – a warm, patient, and silent hearth that keeps the warmth of an entire poor household.

Back then, my hometown was very poor. Winter brought endless worries, from meals to clothing. The weather was cold, the fields lay idle, adults had little work, and children's hands turned purple on their way to school. But amidst the biting cold of the monsoon winds, the fire in the small kitchen still glowed brightly every evening, like a gentle comfort from the homeland to its hardworking people.

My hearth wasn't big. Just three makeshift stones propped up, with a weathered aluminum pot on top. The walls were blackened with soot, but it was warmer than any other corner of the house. Every winter afternoon, my mother would light the fire very early. The soft sound of a match striking, the small flame trembling before flaring up, gently licking at the dry firewood. The smell of the kitchen smoke mingled with the scent of straw, roasted sweet potatoes, and half-burned leaves – all blended together into a unique aroma that, when far away, evokes a deep longing.

I still remember my mother sitting by the hearth. Her back was slightly hunched, her hair streaked with premature gray from years of hard work. Her skillful hands turned the firewood and fanned the flames, the firelight illuminating her thin but kind face. Outside, the east wind howled through the bamboo grove; inside, the fire crackled, like two contrasting worlds : one cold and desolate, the other offering warmth and comfort.

On those winter afternoons, the whole family would gather around the hearth. My father would mend the old fishing net or repair the chipped hoe. My mother would cook while telling stories about the village. And we, the simple country children, would sit close together, warming our hands by the fire, waiting for our mother to roast a sweet potato, an ear of corn, or a few bananas that had just turned ripe. Just holding a hot sweet potato in our hands, blowing on it before eating, made the winter feel half as light. The hearth fire in my mother's village on a winter afternoon not only warmed our bodies but also warmed our little souls. There were giggles, endless stories, and peaceful moments when everyone sat together, listening to the fire burn, listening to the wind blowing outside. The hearth fire was a place that bound the family together, a support system to help people get through the difficult times.

On some afternoons, the weather was colder than usual. The wind howled, and a light drizzle fell. Mother lit the stove bigger, adding more wood and straw. The reddish-brown flames illuminated each raindrop mixed in with the smoke. I sat by the stove, pressing my face against my mother's knees, listening to her steady heartbeat, feeling an unusual sense of peace. At that time, I naively thought that as long as there was a fire in the hearth, any winter could pass.

The years passed silently like a dream! Then I grew up. I left my hometown to study and work. In the winters that followed, I lived in the city, in tall buildings with glass windows, modern heaters and air conditioners. But amidst all those conveniences, I still felt something deeply missing. On cold city winter afternoons, people hurried past each other, the bright electric lights shining but not enough to warm my heart. And I remembered my mother's hearth – the smell of smoke, the crackling sound of burning wood, the image of my mother sitting silently by the hearth every winter afternoon.

Upon returning to my hometown, many things had changed. The old kitchen was gone, replaced by a gas stove. The house was more spacious, and life was more comfortable. But deep down, I still searched for the image of the hearth from years past. My mother was older now, her eyesight failing, her hands trembling, but whenever the weather turned cold, she still maintained the habit of sitting near the hearth, even if only to warm herself, to reminisce about a time gone by. I suddenly understood that the hearth in my mother's hometown on a winter afternoon was not just an image of memory, but a symbol of kinship, of protection, of roots. No matter where they go, deep within every person far from home, there remains a hearth burning – the hearth of their homeland, of their mother, of days that will never return.

This winter afternoon, in this unfamiliar city, I suddenly feel a warmth in my heart as I remember the hearth of my mother's hometown. Outside, the wind still blows, the winter is still cold. But within me, the fire of yesteryear still burns – silently, persistently, illuminating an entire realm of unforgettable memories…

Mai Ly

Source: https://baodongnai.com.vn/dong-nai-cuoi-tuan/202512/bep-lua-chieu-dong-que-me-12a195e/