Silent moonlit seasons

Heroic Vietnamese Mother Ngo Thi Nhuong is 95 years old this year. Her eyesight has deteriorated significantly, and she needs a cane to walk. Her simple house in Phu Thong commune becomes lively during the summer months with the presence of children. When we arrived, Mother Nhuong sat on the porch, silently, as if thinking about something long past.

Many moon cycles have passed, yet every day, Mrs. Ngo Thi Nhuong still looks up at her son's portrait and whispers his name.

Mother Nhuong was originally from Hung Yen province. She had seven children, four sons and three daughters. In the early 1960s, following the Party's call, she and her husband moved to Phu Thong commune to develop a new economic zone.

When the war of resistance against the US for national liberation was at its most intense, and the children had grown up, my three sons successively enlisted in the army.

Recalling those old days, after a long silence, Mrs. Nhuong's voice became distant: "All three of my sons joined the army, they were all very young. Back then, we were very poor; when they enlisted, they had nothing but their uniforms. Each of them waved and smiled as they left, even though I repeatedly told them to be careful and to return home victorious. But only one of them remembered…"

Sitting beside her, Mr. Tran Van Lan, the youngest son of Mrs. Nhuong, continued: "My eldest uncle, Tran Van Dung, was born in 1970, when he was only 19 years old. I remember that Uncle Dung came home to visit twice and even wrote letters. My mother was illiterate, but every time she received a letter, she was very happy, saying that it meant he was still healthy. But one afternoon in April 1974, my family received news that Uncle Dung had died on the battlefield in the South. We all burst into tears, only my mother remained silent."

In 1979, five years after bidding farewell to her eldest son, Mrs. Nhuong suppressed her grief to see her third son, Tran Van Nhuong, off to join the army. But just one year later, in 1980, she once again held a death notice in her hands.

Mr. Nhuong sacrificed his life while on international duty in Cambodia. Although she couldn't read the words on the paper, her heart felt like it had stopped beating. Mr. Lan choked up: "That time, my mother sat by the fire all night. She didn't cry; it seemed her tears had flowed back into her heart."

The meal organized by the local youth was a source of encouragement for Heroic Vietnamese Mother Ngo Thi Nhuong.

After twice saying goodbye to her sons and receiving death notices, Mrs. Nhuong struggled to raise her remaining children to adulthood. She hid her grief deep within her heart, rarely mentioning her two deceased sons. To her, they were simply somewhere far away, unable to return for dinner.

Since receiving the death notices for her two sons, the mother has endured countless incomplete moonlit nights. On lonely nights, with only the sound of falling leaves and the wind blowing through the eaves, she softly calls out: "Dũng ơi... Nhượng ơi..."

Now, at her advanced age, my mother doesn't remember much, but whenever someone mentions her children's names, her eyes light up, sparkling as if a flood of memories has just returned. She says, "They can't come back anymore... I miss them so much... but I don't resent anything, I just hope they rest in peace far away."

Every year, on July 27th or other major holidays, local authorities, organizations, and neighbors all come to visit my mother. Sometimes it's a package of cakes, a box of milk, a family meal, or a warm handshake. For my mother, that is the greatest warmth and comfort after years of silently bearing her pain.

Source: https://baothainguyen.vn/xa-hoi/202507/nhung-mua-trang-lang-le-e24275c/