The love that's "saved up"

In the countryside, people rarely say "I love you" out loud; they just keep it deep inside, then express that love through tiny things hidden somewhere in the house, waiting to be brought out and "given away." My grandmother was just like that. She never used to saying sweet words her whole life, but she always saved everything for her children and grandchildren. And the thing she saved most was those bags of... expired cookies.

Grandma's gift

I remember back then, my maternal grandparents' house was nestled among coconut groves, with the wind blowing year-round. In the evenings, you could hear the rustling of leaves, a melancholic sound. Inside, there was an old wooden cupboard in the inner room. It must have been there since my grandfather was alive; the wood was dark, and the hinges creaked every time it was opened, like the sigh of time. At first, the sound of it opening was incredibly noisy, but I got used to it. Inside, there was nothing valuable, just a few sets of clothes, some odds and ends, and a small corner always filled with sweets and snacks. These were gifts from others. Sometimes Aunt Tư would stop by on her way back from the market and give her a bag of coconut cookies, or Uncle Năm from the neighboring village would bring a box of biscuits. My grandmother accepted whatever anyone gave her, smiling kindly, and then put it away in the cupboard. She couldn't bring herself to eat them, secretly saving them for her grandchildren who lived far away.

Every time we came home, before we even had a chance to wash our faces, Grandma would rummage through the cupboard, take out several bags of cookies, and give one to each of us, saying happily, "Eat, children, these cookies are delicious." We heard that phrase so often that it became familiar. But now, thinking back, I feel incredibly touched.

I remember once holding a bag of cookies, gently squeezing it, and finding it incredibly hard. Opening it, the smell of coconut oil wafted up, greasy but slightly burnt, no longer fresh. I turned it over and saw the expiration date had long passed. I didn't dare tell Grandma about the expiration date, I just pretended to want some and took them all back to my room, not letting her eat expired cookies. Grandma smiled kindly, only nodding a few times in response when I told her not to save them, that they tasted best when eaten immediately. I knew that the next time she would still put the cookies back in her usual wooden cupboard, because the way she held the bag of cookies made them seem less like food and more like a cherished sentiment. And how can you say "expired" when you cherish someone's sentiment?

Actually, we all knew that Grandma didn't intentionally let the cakes expire; it was just that we made her wait too long. A few times a year, sometimes only once. Each time we came home, it was a rush, we didn't have time to stay long before leaving. Sometimes, after coming home, we were busy with this and that, not having time to sit with Grandma long, or even check what was left in the cupboard. So the cakes just sat there, day after day, season after season, silently waiting in the dark corner of the cupboard. Waiting until they themselves became old and dilapidated.

Later, after my grandmother passed away, the house felt larger and emptier. That emptiness wasn't just the absence of a few bags of cookies, but also the absence of a habit, a unique way of showing love that only she possessed. Now, every time I see those packaged cookies outside the store, I unconsciously turn them over and check the expiration date. A small habit, yet it gradually became instinctive. And each time, I remember my grandmother, the wooden cupboard, the afternoons with sunlight streaming through the cracks in the door, and an old woman quietly preserving her "treasures" for her grandchildren.

ORIGINAL

Source: https://www.sggp.org.vn/cai-tinh-de-danh-post847595.html