[E-Magazine]: The Warmth of the Changing Seasons

The steaming cup of tea my mother drank still carried the lingering taste of winter, spring, summer, and the seasons within me that she nurtured and cultivated, along with the sweet fragrance of gentle March.

In my dreams, March is the kapok tree in the village still asleep, the white grapefruit blossoms still slumbering in the garden, and my mother's bicycle wheels, already covered in dew, clatter along the bumpy, stony road.

I remember those days, vaguely hearing the occasional rooster crowing, when the sky was still shrouded in a silvery mist, and my mother would get up to light the fire and steam sticky rice in the kitchen, filling it with a rosy glow. I was familiar with the crackling of burning wood, the clatter of pot lids, the splashing of water in the basin, and the shuffling of my mother's footsteps. But the smell of cooked sticky rice was always that special scent, both awakening and soothing my childhood dreams. When the creaking faded from view, my mother would cycle tirelessly along the village road and "set up her stall" at the familiar crossroads.

The wooden table stood tilted, waiting for my mother's hand to reach down and spread a smooth cloth over it, displaying baskets of sticky rice and cups of warm herbal tea. Adults, the elderly, and children bustled around my mother's thoughtful little stall. The sticky rice grains clung to each other, joyfully rustling as my mother carefully wrapped and handed them to passersby. People said my mother's sticky rice was generous in portion and reasonably priced, so anyone traveling far or near would stop by her stall to grab a packet to keep them warm and energized for the whole day. Perhaps it was because heaven was so kind to her that my mother's illnesses could be counted on the fingers of one hand. Or perhaps it was because she didn't allow herself to tire, burdened with countless worries and responsibilities. Behind those early morning baskets of sticky rice lay a myriad of hopes; my mother hoped to provide a warm and comfortable home and ensure her children didn't have to suffer too much hardship. I loved watching my mother smile as she smoothed out each coin from the sticky rice. Though it was just a small amount of money, it was special to me because it was carefully saved from the salty sweat of my mother's life.

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The village crossroads, though not bustling with activity, served as a haven for vendors carrying baskets of vegetables and fish. My mother's and my villagers' lives, their struggle for survival, flowed peacefully and quietly. And that small corner at the crossroads held countless joys and sorrows, a place where my mother watched over me, no matter where I went. My mother was the warm embrace of my homeland, holding me close with all her love. The warmth of the changing seasons, the sticky rice she prepared, represented a maternal love unmatched in the world, guiding me onward with a clear mind and unwavering steps. The kitchen still held traces of my mother's presence, the morning dew still dampened her shoulders, and the pebbles of the country road continued to roll, sighing before the wheels of my mother's life. Those tireless, round wheels turned through the changing seasons.

My mother's sticky rice from our hometown warmed me throughout my long journey from the bamboo groves of my village to the new city. The fragrant, sticky rice grains sing, the corn, beans, and peanuts add their tender aroma, the familiar scent of burning wood fills the air, my mother's gentle smile is there, and the love of my homeland is there too… I don't know how many baskets of sticky rice my mother cooked, how many times she cast her shadow at the crossroads to help me reach my dreams and aspirations. I cry in my dreams not because I fear the return of the past. I cry because I understand, because I pity my mother's life of hard work, a life I only vaguely remembered and then forgot when I was a child. The old, worn bicycle now leans against the warehouse wall. My mother still occasionally brings out the aluminum steamer to cook batches of sticky rice when we gather together on holidays. My mother's sticky rice is still as soft and flavorful as ever, the small kitchen still filled with the aroma of cooked rice and the fragrant fire. I remember the changing seasons as I grew up, never once missing a beat.

I returned to visit my mother and home in the ripening month of March. The village road was wide and new, the village crossroads had been widened and connected seamlessly with the neighboring roads. I still pictured a small, gentle corner where the tea table and basket of sticky rice were once placed every morning. The old kapok tree had already enjoyed its seasons of vibrant red blossoms and calmly watched the changes in my homeland. The pure white pomelo blossoms fluttered throughout the lanes, and my gentle mother, in her apricot-colored woolen coat, lingered in the steaming hot tea she drank, still carrying the faint taste of winter, spring, summer, and the seasons within me that she nurtured and cultivated, all fragrant in the sweet month of March.

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Encourage U.S. businesses to expand investment in high-tech sectors.Deputy Prime Minister Ho Quoc Dung said that Vietnam welcomes US businesses to continue expanding their operations in Vietnam, especially in high-tech industries and sectors with high added value.

Vietnam and the United States strengthen cooperation in addressing the consequences of war.VTV.vn - On June 22, General Secretary and President To Lam received Acting Secretary of the US Navy Hung Cao.

Content: Moc Nhien

Photo: Internet source

Graphics: Mai Huyen

Source: https://baothanhhoa.vn/e-magazine-hoi-am-giao-mua-282637.htm