Illustration photo: NGANG NGANG
In my early years without parents, my paternal grandparents were my whole world , a peaceful haven where I grew up. I was born weak, weighing only 1.8 kg, with pale skin, barely clinging to life amidst a terrible scabies. Neighbors shook their heads in pity, everyone thought I wouldn't survive, but my grandmother didn't give up. She held me tightly in her arms, taking me everywhere to seek treatment, clinging to the faintest glimmer of hope. Breast milk was gone, and formula was scarce. There were days when she had to carry me for miles, knocking on doors of houses with young children, begging for milk for me. Many nights, I cried incessantly, and she stayed awake all night comforting me with her trembling lullabies in the cold wind. Through those arduous months, she cradled, cared for, and bravely protected my tiny life, like keeping a flame alive in a storm.
To me, my grandmother was the kindest grandmother in the world. Every morning when she went to the market, she always bought me treats, sometimes a baked sweet potato, sometimes a banana cake, sometimes an orange cake. My grandmother was a talented writer. She preserved the treasure of folk culture with her love and amazing memory. She knew many folk songs, proverbs, and poems by heart. When I was little, every evening before bed, she would read me sweet six-eight syllable poems. She also told me many fairy tales, sometimes the legend of the milk tree, sometimes the story of Thach Sanh fighting the ogre, or the gentle Tam. Her voice was gentle and warm; each word seemed to penetrate my heart, planting the seeds of a love for literature in me. But more than anything, she taught me to love people the way she lived. I remember once, when we had a memorial service at home, I had finished eating, but she still left some dishes I liked. Just as I was about to put away the food, a thin old woman came to our house asking for food. My grandmother looked at me and softly said:
- This is your sister, can you give her this portion?
I gave the beggar woman my meal without hesitation. Years later, when my grandmother's real sister came to visit from afar, I asked her if she remembered the time I gave her food. She looked at me in surprise, confused, and asked my grandmother again. Only then did I realize my grandmother had lied, but it was a beautiful lie, planting the first seed of compassion in me.
I grew up in the loving embrace of my grandparents, in a simple house always filled with affection. Every winter, my grandmother would spread dried banana leaves on the bed to test if it was warm enough before calling me in to sleep, while she went out to the porch to chop vegetables for the pigs in the biting cold wind. When I was little, before electricity like now, every sweltering summer, my grandmother would sit beside me and fan me to sleep. The simple palm-leaf fan swayed rhythmically with her thin hand, carrying both cool breezes and her love for me.
My grandfather was a teacher, and he was also the first teacher in my life, holding my hand and teaching me my first letters. His small room was full of books, faintly smelling of old paper when the wind blew through the window each summer afternoon. He had a habit of smoking, but he never smoked inside. Every time he wanted a puff, he would go outside to the alley, standing silently in the shimmering afternoon light so that the smoke wouldn't harm my grandmother and me. He liked watching the news, but when I was studying, he always turned the volume down as low as possible, just enough for him to hear without disturbing me. I grew up with the low hum of the television in the living room and the gentle respect he showed me. He was also a learned man, with profound knowledge; from mathematics, history, and geography to my naive questions as a child, he patiently explained everything in simple and easy-to-understand terms. My childhood was therefore always interesting and full of discoveries .
When I was in 8th grade, my grandparents moved to Da Lat, while I followed my father to Kien Giang. Then, when I went to university, every summer I would return to Da Lat to stay with my grandmother for half a month. Even if the bus arrived at three in the morning, my grandmother would still turn on the lights and wait for me inside the house. At night, even if I stayed out late, my grandparents would wait for me to come home before going to sleep. My grandmother still had the habit of setting up a mosquito net for me, just like when I was little. Every time I left Da Lat for Kien Giang, my grandmother would stand at the gate, watching until my figure disappeared behind the familiar slope.
My grandparents' love wasn't loud, but it was always abundant and warm, like a fire in the middle of winter. Now, every time I see old books, I remember my grandfather. Every time I see an elderly person on the street, I see my grandmother's small, hunched figure, carrying a basket to the market early in the morning. They raised me with all their silent sacrifice and unconditional love.
As I grew up, becoming independent and strong, I always reminded myself to live kindly, just as my grandparents did. To me, my paternal grandparents were my parents, my sacred home, my peaceful haven. And the small house of my youth, where banana leaves covered the bed on cold winter nights, where cigarette smoke quietly drifted outside, and where my grandfather's figure read a book on a peaceful summer afternoon, will forever remain the warmest place in my life.
Source: https://baoangiang.com.vn/cho-am-doi-toi-a424941.html
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