Mother's fish basket

Mother’s fish load is not only fresh fish just scooped from cages or caught in the river, but also hard work and hardship. The shoulder pole has worn away the signs of time. That shoulder pole has supported many of mother’s worries and dreams for a more fulfilling life for her children.

My mother was not highly educated, nor was she familiar with letters or math. But she knew how to calculate every penny, and how to take care of her children with boundless love. On chilly mornings, she carried a load on her shoulder and walked quickly from the village to the district market. Her feet were familiar with every rough section, every bumpy stone on the roadside. Each step was a laborious one, but also a loving one.

The district market was crowded and noisy. In the midst of the crowd, my mother sat quietly beside her basket of fish, her eyes thoughtfully observing every glance of passersby. She selected the best fish, cleaned them, and arranged them neatly on a layer of green banana leaves. The fish carried the flavor of the river water of her hometown. Selling fish was not always easy.

There were days when the market was crowded, the fish sold quickly, and Mom came home early with a light basket. But there were days when Mom sat until noon, her face showing worry. The fish that had not been sold would be brought home, salted, and saved for later consumption. Despite the hardship, Mom never complained. Mom said, “As long as my children have food and clothing, no matter how hard I work, it doesn’t matter.”

I remember the afternoons, when the sun set behind the bamboo hedge, my mother returned home with an empty basket. Her hands smelled faintly of fish, but her face was still bright with a smile. Every time she opened the old cloth bag and took out the neatly folded coins, I saw that inside were not only money, but also drops of sweat, and her unconditional love for her children.

I grew up, left the village for the city to pursue education. The day I packed my bags and went to the city, my mother put a wad of change in my hand, the money she had saved from the early morning market. Her rough hands, her skinny fingers tightly grasped mine, as if she wanted to convey all her love, as if she wanted to keep me by her side a little longer. I didn’t dare cry, but my heart suddenly ached. I knew that behind that amount of money were the days my mother had spent in the rain and sun, the heavy burdens on her thin shoulders.

During the years away from home, every time I returned home, I still saw my mother carrying a load to the market. She was getting older, her back was more bent, but her eyes were still bright, her smile was still as gentle as ever. I told her: “You should rest, let me take care of it”, but she just smiled and said: “I’m used to it, my child. If I don’t do it, I miss it again”.

Over time, carrying fish has become a part of my mother’s life. That carrying fish has raised me, taught me to value work, to love and appreciate silent sacrifices. No matter how far I go in the future, my mother will still be there, with her familiar carrying pole, with her immeasurable love for her children.

Source: https://baogialai.com.vn/ganh-ca-cua-me-post330330.html