The scent of a mother's love

In Northwest Vietnam during the transitional seasons, the weather is as capricious as an eighteen-year-old girl. Early in the morning, when the mist is still sleepy, the gloomy sky brings a chill. Yet by noon, the stifling heat makes the youngest daughter's cheeks flush red when her mother picks her up at the school gate. The unpredictable weather makes the girl sick with a runny nose and incessant coughing fits…

Visiting my grandmother on the weekend, my mother, seeing me coughing, quickly said, "Put some of this menthol balm on your neck, dear. It'll help with your cough." The scent of my mother's menthol balm wafted through the air, awakening my sense of smell. The pungent aroma stirred memories of my childhood years in my parents' simple, rustic wooden house. It was a smell that, as a child, I would shake my head in displeasure at, despite my mother's love and concern. Each time I smelled it, it reminded me of a world of cherished memories, a small, peaceful corner, a happy garden of my childhood, the scent of years gone by that can never return…

Perhaps, in those old days, the smell of medicated oil was always associated with the times my sisters and I fell ill. My mother always had a bottle of Truong Son green medicated oil or a small, red-painted tin jar of balm , like a toy car wheel, readily available. For her, it was a miraculous remedy for all ailments of her young children. And those very bottles of medicated oil remind me of a poor childhood, where Western medicine was truly a luxury for the rich. The pungent, unpleasant smell that stung my eyes every time my mother applied it to my temples, every time my daughters had headaches or runny noses, every time my younger brother learned to walk with scraped knees from falls, she would take out her bottle of medicated oil and apply a layer to the affected area. Her gentle breath carried the cool breeze of maternal love, worry, and reassurance: "Bear the pain and sting a little, my child. It'll be better in a moment."

But we—her children—wouldn't cooperate. Sometimes I would frown and whine, "It smells awful, Mom! It stings my eyes, I'm not going to use it!" Yet, Mom would patiently apply it, caressing us every time she was about to apply that "cure-all" oil. I only knew that behind the warmth of Mom's rough, sun-weathered hands was the lingering scent of menthol balm, even though it wasn't pleasant at first. And yet, afterwards, my headache subsided, my stuffy nose felt clearer, and the swelling from my fall lessened… I just didn't know that this simple scent of my childhood was also the scent of love, the scent of happiness I received…

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Later, when I grew up and left that beloved home filled with cherished childhood memories, I no longer smelled that familiar scent. Around me were so many other pleasant and intoxicating fragrances: the scent of expensive perfume, the rich aroma of imported shampoo, the inviting scent of strong coffee… And I felt a void, a longing for the happy scent of my childhood years. The scent of the medicated oil bottle brimming with my mother's love. And I especially missed the scent that evoked memories of the days when our family of five would gather to watch movies on the black and white television, and when my daughter coughed, my mother would take out the bottle of medicated oil and apply it to my neck, and then the whole family would have a "feast" of fragrance.

Now, in this house where only my mother comes and goes in solitude, I encounter that familiar, simple scent again, a scent that pulls back a whole sky of memories, giving me a chance to relive a moment of peace in my mind. And I suddenly realize that sometimes we forget things, just like that simple, rustic scent of menthol balm. Only when we are far from home, facing the difficulties, challenges, and pressures of life, do we realize that what we miss most isn't something grand or magnificent, but what is deeply etched in our minds might be a simple home-cooked meal my mother prepared with a bowl of wild greens soup and pickled eggplant, the rich aroma of the thick, creamy rice porridge she cooked over a wood fire with a little sugar added… And sometimes it's even the scent of the balm she used to apply during our carefree childhood days.

And now, every time I return home, sitting down to eat with my mother in our beloved house, smelling the scent she used to apply whenever the weather changed, I no longer find that old smell unpleasant. On the contrary, it's a scent of love, a scent of happiness, a scent that reminds me to cherish the past and live well in the present. It's like a subtle reminder from my mother to her children: Life may tire you out, but always remember that your mother is here, waiting for you whenever you feel lost. There, you still have your mother, her love, the scent of her balm, and most importantly, the scent of your mother.

Pham Thi Yen

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Source: https://baodongnai.com.vn/van-hoa/chao-nhe-yeu-thuong/202605/mui-yeu-thuong-cua-me-b84309e/