The cold winter months

Those were incredibly hungry and cold days. At mealtime, my mother would bring up a pot of crab soup, steaming hot, its fragrant aroma wafting around the kitchen and filling my rumbling stomach...

It's raining again today, as usual; whenever the northeast monsoon arrives, it drizzles incessantly. The rain isn't heavy, but it's been a persistent drizzle for days. The land is damp and muddy, the fields and gardens are soggy, the trees are sad and silent, only the bare branches occasionally spring up and flutter when the cool wind blows through.

With her feet digging deep into the mud, the mother walked relentlessly, despite her rumbling stomach from hunger... ( Illustrative image from the Internet ).

"Winter is a harsh month"—my mother often said that to remind her children and grandchildren to rearrange their schedules as winter approached. They had to plan their business, make arrangements for food and clothing, and prepare for the harsh winter days.

Life in my hometown was very hard back then. The roads were muddy after days of persistent rain. Early in the morning, my mother wrapped a scarf around her waist, carried a plow on her shoulder, and led the buffalo by the hand. In her pocket was a sack of rice husks and dried betel nuts she had saved from the previous year. The fields were deep and the water was icy. The buffalo hesitantly took its first step into the edge of the field, its whole body tensing up, its thin fur bristling. The wind howled, accompanied by rain lashing against both the buffalo and the woman, making them shiver.

My mother's tattered raincoat fluttered in the wind behind the furrow in the plow. Her feet dug deep into the mud as she trudged on, her stomach rumbling with hunger.

The buffalo trudged along, craning its neck to one side to nibble on a clump of tender grass near the bank. Mother, with one hand holding the plow and the other outstretched, bent low, trying to catch a freshwater crab that emerged from behind the soil. By the end of the plowing session, the basket was almost full of crabs. On the way home, she stopped at the sweet potato field, and that day we had another delicious bowl of sweet potato leaf and freshwater crab soup.

The taste of my mother's crab soup from the old days is still unforgettable... ( Illustrative image from the Internet ).

Even now, I occasionally cook crab soup, where the crabs are ground in a mortar and pestle, then strained to extract the liquid for cooking. Crab soup remains a family favorite, but for me, the taste of my mother's crab soup from the old days is unforgettable. Even though the crabs were only split in half and cooked with sweet potato leaves, and the seasoning was minimal, it was incredibly delicious. Back then, we were incredibly hungry and cold. At mealtime, my mother would bring up a pot of steaming crab soup, its aroma wafting through the kitchen and filling my rumbling stomach. My childhood was shaped by those seasons of sweet potato leaf soup with freshwater crabs.

Nowadays, people in my hometown seem to raise buffalo and cattle only for meat. Plowing has been replaced by modern machinery. Life has changed, labor has been improved, and people everywhere are prosperous and happy. Unlike in the past, when the fields were plowed and tilled year-round, yet people still couldn't escape poverty and hardship.

Winter has returned, bringing cold, drizzling rain for days on end, dampening the soil, and stripping the trees bare of frost. Fortunately, the country roads leading from the villages to the rice paddies have been paved with concrete. The rain and wind still follow the changing seasons, in rhythm with the earth and sky. Now, people raise freshwater crabs, feeding them industrial feed instead of the purely natural diet they once had.

Winter is a cold month filled with joys, sorrows, and hardships from dawn till dusk... ( Illustrative image from the Internet ).

My mother lived for nearly a hundred years, surrounded by the village fields. The days of poverty and hunger are over, but her hands still tremble whenever she recounts the hardships of the past to her children and grandchildren. She endured nearly a hundred "winter seasons," filled with joys, sorrows, and tireless labor. She learned to be thrifty and resilient; she learned to endure hardship and understand the ways of the world. She learned to rely on the land and the seasons to survive through difficult times.

I grew up in the countryside and then left to find a new life, witnessing the hardships of childhoods in the past, which makes me cherish the value of life today. The rain has been relentless for days. The north wind has returned, dry and biting. A feeling of nostalgia suddenly wells up inside me. I miss my mother, my hometown, the bowl of sweet potato leaf and crab soup from the past. I miss it so much, I miss the countryside that nurtured me until now.

The cold winter months still sting my heart.

Nguyen Doan Viet

Source: https://baohatinh.vn/van-hoc/mua-dong-thang-gia/259200.htm