Tomorrow morning, have you lit the stove yet, Mom? (*)

QTO - There are mornings when I wake up with a start to the sound of rain tapping on the tin roof, the cold wind blowing through the cracks of the door, and suddenly a vague and haunting question arises in my heart: "Tomorrow morning, has Mom lit the stove yet?". That question is like a thin thread of smoke that drifts into my dream, warming up the memories of the past. There, there is the smell of damp straw, the sound of firewood burning, and Mom's silhouette bent over the red fire.

1. My teacher lost her mother on a cold day at the end of the year. The girl who was filled with happiness suddenly became an orphan. I know that, throughout the years, in her, the pain of losing her mother has not subsided for a single day. The stories about her mother are always told by her in a voice as gentle as the morning smoke, light and trembling as if she wants to suppress the endless pain that is about to overflow in the corners of her eyes. She often talks about her mother, her voice is both trembling and warm. I have never seen her cry, but every time she mentions her mother, her eyes fill with tears, her gaze is far away as if she is looking back to a memory with kitchen smoke and her mother's dear figure. Her voice is slow and intermittent, as if she is afraid that if she says one more word, tears will flow.

She said, in the old mornings, memories of her mother always come back as clearly as if it were yesterday: “That is when the sound of wind blowing rain outside the window, the warm smell of kitchen smoke wafting from the back kitchen. The sound of mother's hurried footsteps, then the sound of buckets and pots being pushed. Drops of water from the old tiled roof falling onto the buckets and pots, ting ting, ting ting, ting ting. The grunts of the pigs demanding food, the creaking sound of the barn door opening as the chickens were already rustling on the tree branches... The rich aroma of the cassava porridge rising up along with the strong, pungent smell of betel leaves, chao oi la cuon...”.

Illustration: HH

Then her voice choked up, that morning, she intended to sleep in a little longer, but suddenly realized there was no more smell of smoke from the kitchen, no more footsteps. There was only the sound of rain as if echoing from her memories and a heartbreaking emptiness. Her mother had been gone for a long time, but her longing still lingered. Every time it rained, she would absentmindedly look out the window: "I wonder, over there... tomorrow morning, has mom lit the stove yet?". "Over there" as she said it, sounded so light yet so heartbreakingly sad. It was a distance that could never be reached, only the longing was so dense.

2. In my childhood, dawn did not begin with the crowing of a rooster, but with the crackling of firewood in a blazing stove. Those were the early mornings, when the darkness still enveloped the small kitchen, my mother woke up and busily lit the stove. The light sounds seemed to awaken the quiet space of the early morning. The flickering light in the gray corner of the kitchen cast a faint yellow light on the old wall like a breath. Mother bent over the stove, her chapped hands lighting the firewood, the crackling sound resounding in the cold morning mist. The whole cold little kitchen suddenly warmed up with the gray smoke.

My mother had a small noodle stall selling at the village market every morning. That noodle stall raised my sisters and me, and helped the whole family through the lean seasons. From the kitchen filled with the smell of gray smoke, my mother's noodle stalls traveled all over the streets, through every corner of the market, but also made her hands calloused and her back bent over the years. Therefore, the smell of wood smoke that day not only lingered on her clothes and hair, but also clung to my childhood memories. Those were the years of struggle and hardship, of cold mornings that cut through the skin, my mother still got up and carried the pot of noodles to the market. The village road was still soaked with the night air, the branches and leaves were shriveled by the bitter cold. The shoulder poles were heavy. The heat radiated, mixed with the smell of wood smoke to create a familiar, heartbreaking scent. My mother passed by, the kitchen smoke still lingered on her faded shirt.

The country market was not crowded then, only a few people were there. Mom set up her stall on the small porch, her hands quickly scooping noodles, her eyes wet from the smoke, the cold wind, or from worries she never spoke of. To me, the bowl of noodles my mom cooked was the most delicious thing in the world, because it was full of the sweetness of love, sweat, sleepless nights of worry, and of course, mixed with the smell of kitchen smoke.

3. We grew up and left the small kitchen. The worries of making a living were no longer as daunting as they were in the old days, but my mother still kept the habit of waking up every morning to light the stove. Sometimes it was just a way for her to forget the loneliness of old age. The kitchen was tiny but lit up with a peaceful light.

In the city, sometimes, in my dreams, I see myself sitting in front of the old noodle stall, smoke billowing, and my mother smiling gently, her eyes shining in the gray smoke. I wake up, my heart suddenly chokes up. I wonder if at this time, back home, my mother has already gotten up to light the stove, still bent over the steaming pot of broth in the early morning? Working far away, every time I return to my hometown, the first thing I do is step into the kitchen, quietly sit and look at the ashes, my hand stroking the stone that supported the pot from the past. So many memories rush back, lingering like thin smoke.

My teacher told me that as time goes by, the old kitchen smoke gradually fades behind the concrete walls. We are busy with work, waking up to the sound of the telephone, cooking with a shiny electric stove, no more smoke stinging our eyes, no more smell of damp straw on our clothes. But amidst the abundance, we feel something is missing, both warm and old. There are days when we walk through the noisy streets, suddenly stopping in front of the smoke rising from a roadside restaurant, tears welling up in our eyes. Because in that smoke, we seem to recognize the small figure of our mother, her shoulders hunched, her hands moving quickly by the gray smoky stove.

It turns out that in countless lives, there will be countless turns, countless differences, but we can still share the same memories of poverty in the past. Those memories are like thin wisps of smoke, still strong enough to hold on to the beautiful things amidst the hustle and bustle of everyday life. And then, even though time has passed, people still cannot forget the first fire in their lives - the fire of their mother. And all memories of their mother can start from an early morning, a stove, a wisp of smoke in the mist. Throughout our lives, no matter where we go, we are still haunted by a longing: "This morning, has mother lit the stove yet...".

Dieu Huong

(*) Adapted from the poem "Kitchen Fire" (Bang Viet).

Source: https://baoquangtri.vn/van-hoa/tap-but/202511/som-mai-nay-me-nhom-bep-len-chua-c8c6b16/