There are afternoons, amidst the hustle and bustle of work and endless journeys, when I suddenly slow down because of a very familiar longing. That longing is for my mother. Not sharp, not fierce, just quiet like the wind blowing through the old porch, but enough to make my heart ache.
My mother is gone, but her image remains present in every corner of my memory, in every rare moment of quiet in my life. When she was alive, I used to think that time was the most abundant thing. I believed that after just one more business trip, one more article, one more busy period, I would be able to come home and sit beside her for a long time. I became accustomed to her promises of "next time," accustomed to her silent waiting, without understanding that some "next times" would never come.
I chose journalism as a profession. It was a choice that was both instinctive and driven by ideals. My mother didn't object. She just worried quietly. Since I started my career, my travels have become more frequent, and my visits home have become less frequent. Every time I packed my bags and left, my mother would stand on the porch, watching until my figure disappeared from view. At that time, I didn't know that behind that gaze were countless sleepless nights for her, waiting for a call to let me know I was safe and sound.
Being a journalist means accepting the pressure, danger, and very real loneliness. There were nights I stayed awake, eating my meals with tears, carefully weighing every word between right and wrong, between truth and the fine lines. I poured my youth into journeys with no return date, into stories that needed to be told. But in return, I missed so many moments with my mother.
When my mother was ill, I wasn't there. I could only check on her over the phone, with short, hurried messages. On the other end of the line, she still tried to speak gently to reassure me, even though her health had deteriorated significantly. I didn't see her figure growing thinner with each passing year, nor did I hear her sighs as night fell. The familiar house, where I knew every brick and every corner of the kitchen, suddenly became a distant place in my endless journeys. Some nights, in a strange city, I dreamt of returning home. My mother was still sitting by the fire, calling me in for dinner. The dream was so simple that when I woke up, I was shocked to realize it was just a dream. The hand that used to caress my head when I was little was no longer there, leaving only a silent, persistent longing.
As a son, I carry a debt that can never be fully repaid. On the anniversary of my grandparents' death, I excused myself because my work wasn't finished. I promised to come home for the meals my mother cooked, but I kept missing the appointments. My mother never blamed me. She only asked my younger sibling to quietly ask, "Is your brother coming home?" It was a simple question, but every time I heard it, my heart ached. My mother only wished for one simple thing: for me to be at peace. But it was that very simple wish that I broke my promise to fulfill so many times.
I thought I still had time, that my mother's wait was endless. I believed that when I had more free time, I would go home and spend a long time with her. But life doesn't work out according to plans that haven't been fulfilled. The day I received the news of my mother's passing, all the sounds around me fell silent. There were no loud tears, no mournful cries. Just an empty space in my heart – a place where my mother's warmth had once lingered. I suddenly understood that the longest journey in a person's life isn't the roads they've traveled, but the journey of their mother – a journey with no return.
That day, I returned home. The house was still there, the porch was still there, but the person waiting was gone. The kitchen was cold. The dinner table was empty. I sat in silence for a long time, listening to the faint sounds of time passing. Everything was painfully familiar, but the most important thing was missing. Now that I had returned to my mother, she was no longer there. Mother, you have gone to Nirvana. And from now on, you are gone from me forever.
I write these lines as a tribute. Not to cling to the past, not to complain, but to remind myself to live more slowly, to pause more often amidst the hustle and bustle. Because when parents are alive, that is where we can return. When parents are gone, it is only a place to remember. In some peaceful place, I believe my mother is still watching over me – with the same gentle gaze as the day she saw me off. And I believe that if I live more kindly, live more fully for those who remain, that is the most belated but sincere way I can show my filial piety to my mother!
Source: https://baophapluat.vn/me-di-qua-ben-kia-mua-gio.html
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