My mother's carrying pole wasn't just filled with fresh fish just caught from the fish cages or from the river; it also represented her hard work and toil. The carrying poles were worn down by time. Those poles had supported countless worries and dreams of a better life for her children.
My mother wasn't highly educated, nor was she familiar with letters or math. But she knew how to calculate every penny, and how to care for her children with boundless love. On chilly mornings, she would carry her burden on her shoulders, walking from the village to the district market. Her feet were familiar with every rough patch of road, every uneven stone along the side. Each step was a laborious one, but also a step filled with love.
The district market was crowded and noisy. Amidst the throng, my mother sat quietly beside her basket of fish, her eyes thoughtfully observing the glances of passersby. She selected the best fish, washed them clean, and arranged them neatly on a layer of green banana leaves. The fish carried the flavor of the rivers and waters of her homeland. Selling fish wasn't always easy.
Some days the market was crowded, the fish sold quickly, and my mother went home early with her basket feeling light. But other days, she would sit there until noon, her face showing worry. She would bring home the unsold fish, stew them in a salty sauce, and save them for later. Despite the hard work, she never complained. She said, "As long as my children have food and clothing, no matter how hard I work, it doesn't matter."
I remember those afternoons, when the sun set behind the village bamboo grove, my mother would return home with an empty basket. Her hands smelled faintly of fish, but her face was still bright with a smile. Each time she opened her old cloth bag and took out the neatly folded coins, I saw that it contained not just money, but also her sweat, her unconditional love for her children.
I grew up and left the village for the city to pursue my education. The day I packed my bags for the city, my mother slipped a wad of small bills into my hand—money she had saved from her early morning market days. Her rough hands, her thin fingers gripping mine tightly, seemed to want to convey all her love, to keep me by her side a little longer. I didn't dare cry, but my heart ached. I knew that behind that money were countless days of my mother enduring rain and sun, and the heavy burdens weighing on her frail shoulders.
During my years away from home, every time I returned, I would still see my mother carrying her basket to the market. She had aged, her back more hunched, but her eyes were still bright, and her smile as gentle as ever. I told her, "Mom, you should rest, let me take care of it," but she just smiled and said, "I'm used to it, my child. If I don't do it, I'll miss it."
Over time, carrying fish became a part of my mother's life. That load of fish nurtured me, taught me to value hard work, and to cherish and appreciate silent sacrifices. No matter how far I go in the future, my mother will always be there in my hometown, with her familiar carrying pole and her immeasurable love for her children.
Source: https://baogialai.com.vn/ganh-ca-cua-me-post330330.html
