In my childhood memories, I always see the image of my grandmother by the fireplace during the rainy seasons of yesteryear. (Image: Internet)
Back then, my hometown was poor. In the dry season, dust filled the air, and in the rainy season, the dirt roads were muddy, and after just a few steps, mud clung to our feet. Yet, we children loved the rain. As soon as the sky darkened, we'd rush out into the yard, chasing each other under the streams of water cascading down from the roof. Grandma would stand on the porch and call out, "Go inside, you might catch a cold!" We pretended not to hear. Only when Grandma came out into the yard with her broom did we all frantically run back inside. Grandma didn't hit us, she just threatened us.
Entering the house, everyone was shivering from the cold. Grandma took a towel to dry her hair, lit the fire, boiled a pot of hot ginger water, and made them drink it to warm themselves up. In the small kitchen, the flickering fire illuminated Grandma's wrinkled face. Beside it was a pot of perfectly cooked sweet potatoes, their sweet aroma filling the whole house.
On rainy days, the fields were covered in water. My grandmother would still be bent over the muddy field, her hands working tirelessly. In the evening, I would often stand on the porch, gazing at the muddy road in the rain, waiting for her to come home. When I saw her figure trudging along, her clothes soaked, her thin shoulders trembling slightly in the cold wind, I would run out to greet her. My grandmother would just smile gently: "There's nothing to wait for, Grandma's home."
Grandma rarely talked about her life. Only on long, rainy nights, when the power went out and the whole family gathered around the oil lamp, would she slowly recount a few old stories. Stories about the war years, the failed rice crops due to flooding, the famine years when they had to eat wild greens for meals…
One night, it rained heavily. The wind whipped against the thatched roof, making a rustling sound. I woke up and saw my grandmother still sitting by the flickering oil lamp. I asked softly, "Grandma, aren't you asleep yet?" After a long while, she replied, "I can't sleep. The rain is too heavy; I'm afraid the roof will leak." Then she fell silent again. Later, I understood that what she feared most wasn't a leaky roof, but that the family wouldn't have enough to eat after a long rainy season. There are hardships that cannot be put into words. They lie dormant in the sound of the rain, in her distant gaze, and in the long silence of a lifetime.
My grandmother's love for her grandchildren wasn't expressed in words, but in simple, everyday things. Whenever there was a family anniversary or when all the grandchildren gathered, she would busily prepare steamed rice cakes from early morning. Her wrinkled hands nimbly stirred the batter and poured it into molds over the wood-fired stove. The entire kitchen was filled with the aroma of coconut milk and cooked rice flour, mingled with the thin wisps of smoke. It was the most delicious cake of my childhood, because it contained my grandmother's love.
My grandmother loved my father in her own unique way. Whenever she was angry with him about something, and the whole family invited her to dinner, she would turn away and say, "I wouldn't eat even gold!" But she said that, though; the person she loved most was my father. When he came home late from work, she would stay up waiting for him. When he was sick, she would rush out to buy medicine. Once, when he was drunk and lying sprawled in the hammock, she would grumble while covering him with a blanket and then hurry to cook porridge.
My grandmother passed away during the rainy season. On the day we laid her to rest, it was drizzling, just like today. A thin layer of rain fell on the dirt road and on the shoulders of those attending the funeral. I walked on, feeling as if my legs could barely move. As the crowd disappeared behind the rows of trees, I could only stand silently, gazing at the patch of land that had just filled the space for someone who had dedicated their entire life to their children and grandchildren.
After the funeral, the rainy season continued that year. Rain still fell on the old roof, still blanketed the fields in white. The hammock where Grandma lay was still there, the steamer for cakes still in the corner of the cupboard. Only one thing had changed: no one stood on the porch calling the grandchildren inside when it rained, no one stayed up late waiting for loved ones to return after a day of earning a living…
As I grew older, I understood that the most precious thing my grandmother left behind wasn't any material possessions or wealth. It was the way she taught her children and grandchildren to be compassionate, to value the rice earned through hard work, and to live kindly with their neighbors. Her generation didn't have many opportunities to accumulate wealth for themselves. The years of war, poverty, and hardship took so much from them. My grandmother didn't leave behind large houses or valuable possessions. But she left her children and grandchildren something far more enduring: patience in the face of adversity, compassion for others, and a selfless sacrifice that needed no name.
Now, every time the rainy season returns, I miss my grandmother. I remember her small figure from years ago, silently protecting our family. My grandmother is gone, but she remains in my memory, in our home, and in the kindness that her grandchildren cherish every day.
Source: https://baoangiang.com.vn/nhung-mua-mua-co-noi-a490415.html
