She looked up, her deep-set eyes gazing out towards the rocky road, listening intently. The sun was scorching, but he still hadn't arrived. For three days now, from early morning until late evening, she had stood on the porch anxiously waiting. Including these past three days, she had released two hundred and eight balloons. Her mother would surely return. The balloon artist had assured her of that.
Every morning, as he passed through the yard, he would stop his car and wrap a string around her finger, holding a round balloon, to help her convey her prayers to the angels. Two hundred and five balloons floated up into the blue sky, carrying the whispered words of a poor little heart: "Mommy, please come back to me!"
It didn't know what its mother's face looked like, or what her figure was like, but it was certain that its mother was very beautiful, very gentle, and loved it very much! Its mother would never abandon it. What mother would ever abandon her own flesh and blood, abandon the child she carried and gave birth to? It heard Mrs. Tư, the fried banana seller in the neighborhood, say: nothing compares to rice and fish, nothing compares to a mother and child. The radio broadcast many news reports, but only this one sentence resonated with it: A mother, with her sacred role, is the most wonderful person in the world.
His mother was the best person. She didn't abandon him. She had work to do, she was going away for a while and would come back. He didn't wish for his eyesight back, even though he wanted to know the difference between the blue of the sky, the green of the leaves, the blue of the sea; even though he wanted to see everything… everything… because a child born blind like him couldn't see anything but darkness.
But each person is only allowed to wish for one thing, and it wished to have a mother. Having a mother is the greatest happiness in the world. White is the color of its mother's skin. Black is the color of its mother's hair. Red is the color of its mother's lips (it learned about colors from the story of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs). And the warmth of its mother's loving embrace and sweet words is imaginable. It imagined the day it would meet its mother, its heart overflowing with joy.
…He really didn't come! He was a precious friend, the only good thing it had in its life. He didn't call it "blind," he didn't scorn or mock it, he didn't say hurtful things to it like others did. "Uncle Bubblegum!" – that's how the children shouted whenever he came. Only it called him "Uncle Painter." It didn't know how good his paintings were because it couldn't see, but hearing the exclamations of the children surrounding him as he painted pictures on balloons according to customers' requests, it guessed he must be a genius artist. "Draw Pikachu, Uncle!", "Draw Monkey King, Pigsy, and Sandy!", "Draw Tom and Jerry, that's even better!", "Draw Doraemon and Nobita, that's more fun!"
...If only it could have seen him drawing on balloons amidst that noisy crowd. The drawings, even for children like them, looked exactly like those of a brilliant artist, not just an ordinary one. And even if his drawings were a little bad, in its heart, he was still an angel. He comforted it whenever its owner beat or scolded it for begging for money. He told it fairy tales with happy endings for poor, disabled, kind, and virtuous characters. Only he knew how much it longed for a mother.
At twelve, she had stopped crying. It seemed that even longer before that, she had forgotten what it was like to cry, ever since she learned she had no mother. But at night, alone in the double darkness, she would still cry silently until she was exhausted and fell asleep. Strangely, even the painter knew about it.
...It was getting dark. She stood huddled in the corner of the porch, listening to the rain, her heart aching with a sharp, throbbing pain. Her wish wouldn't come true. Oh, artist, why didn't you come? A gust of wind blew, making her shiver. Not from the cold, but from a bad premonition. May you be safe.
Little did she know that at that very moment, the soul of her beloved artist uncle had departed this world for eternity. He had been hit by a car racer the day before while cycling to sell balloons. Before passing away, he suddenly regained consciousness and asked the nurse to give all his balloons to her. Holding the bag of balloons in her hands, she felt a pang of grief. “Remember to send your prayers for the balloons to take to heaven.”
Tears welled up from the wounded, vulnerable heart of the disabled child, orphaned and without parents. He couldn't die. How could a good person like him die? A person who is loved and remembered by others becomes immortal. Perhaps he knew this day would come, and said this to comfort the child and ease his sorrow.
It still releases balloons into the sky with a burning longing: "Mom, please come back to me!" It still sees the painter in its dreams every night. He holds it in his warm arms, telling it joyful stories. There is one thing he never told it, neither in life nor in death. He grew up in an orphanage, and for over twenty years, from the time he was its age until now, he has released countless balloons into the sky with the wish to see his mother just once, even if only once. That wish could not reach the angels, so he had to take it with him, buried forever in the cold earth along with his lonely, frail body.
Source: https://baotayninh.vn/uoc-mo-bong-bong-150960.html
