Hello love: Peace with mom

I was born in the middle of the sunny and windy Central region, where the Lao wind in the summer blows against my face, where the winter rains are so heavy that the roofs turn white, and where people still live steadfastly amidst the vicissitudes of life. There, happiness does not come from big things, but from small things, like a mother's smile when her child returns home, or a dinner with a bowl of spinach soup with the fragrant smell of smoke from the kitchen.

My mother is a woman who never talks about “happiness”. For her, a peaceful day, a pot of rice cooked evenly, healthy children, that is enough. Her whole life is attached to the fields, to the early mornings wading through the mud to pick vegetables, to the afternoons shivering in the cold wind, drying clothes that have not yet dried. Yet I have never heard her complain. Every time I ask, she just smiles: “It is so hard but I can still see you guys grow up, that is enough to make me happy”. Her “happy” sounds simple, but I know it is the kind of happiness that is exchanged for a lifetime of suffering.

I remember the stormy seasons of the past, when the wind turned, my mother would be busy tying up the roof, tying each rope, and putting all the precious things in the kitchen corner. I was still young and couldn’t help, so I just huddled in the corner and watched my mother. Under the pale yellow oil lamp, my mother’s thin figure was reflected on the wall, shivering with each gust of wind. I was scared, but just hearing my mother call: “Come here, sit close to me so I can stay warm”, all my worries disappeared. Happiness can sometimes be just like that, leaning on a small arm in the midst of a big storm.

The storm eventually passed, leaving behind a desolate and ruined landscape, the vegetable garden collapsed, and the chickens in the garden gone. But the next morning, my mother still got up early to light the fire as if the storm had never happened. The smoke from the kitchen rose, mixed with the smell of damp soil and the sound of roosters crowing, waking up a new day. I still remember that moment, amidst the ruins, my mother still smiled. The smile of someone who knew how to find joy in what was left.

Then when I grew up, I left my hometown to go to the city to make a living. My busy life revolved around hurried mornings at work, industrial lunch boxes... and days racing against time. So I rarely remembered the smell of kitchen smoke or the sound of rain falling on the tin roof of my hometown. Only when I returned to my home in the countryside, seeing my mother bending over to weed the garden, did my heart sink. I suddenly realized that happiness is not something far away, but something I had forgotten right in my mother's eyes.

Mom is now weak, her hair is gray, her thin hands are trembling, but she still worries about me “are you sick”, “is the food good”, or reminds me “remember to bring a jacket when it’s cold”… Each question from Mom is like a small thread, silently mending the gaps in the heart of a child living far away from home. Sometimes I want to say: “I love you, Mom”, but for some reason I feel choked up and can’t get the words out.

Now, every time I leave my hometown to return to the city, I bring with me a jar of my mother’s salted pork and some herbs she picked from the garden. In the salty smell of fish sauce and the green color of the herbs, I see my hometown, my mother’s figure, and a part of the simplest yet most lasting happiness in my life.

People can seek happiness in many ways. For my mother, happiness can be summed up in the word “peace” when the day is sunny, the children come home to eat, the house does not leak, the fields are not flooded. I understand that happiness is not something big, but when we still have someone to care for, to love, to remember.

If anyone asks me what happiness is, I will say: "It's having mom, it's being able to hear her whisper and smile when she sees me come home."

Le Tinh

Source: https://baodongnai.com.vn/van-hoa/202510/chao-nhe-yeu-thuong-binh-yen-khi-co-me-54e12b2/