Dew on Mother's Hair

(Baonghean) - After enduring the scorching summer days, I've seen the wistful winter sow its seeds in the leaves with its clear morning dew. These dewdrops evoke feelings of longing, nostalgia, and reminders of private emotions held within my heart. For so long, despite my busy travels, whenever the dew season arrives, I still long to return to my mother's side…

In my childhood, I often woke up early to admire the morning mist. Sometimes, the fog would billow thickly like white clouds. So I used to joke that our courtyard was like the heavenly palace in the movie "Journey to the West." I would playfully run around in the mist, holding out my hand to catch the tiny droplets slowly falling. The mist still fell every morning in front of our house, gentle and pure. And that was also when my mother would put on her carrying pole, hurrying through the mist to begin another long day filled with the worries of providing for our family…

Illustrative image - Internet.

Winter afternoons are often as somber as my mother's worn brown coat. On the barren fields, a melancholic, silvery mist hangs low. And how poignant and unsettling is the wisp of smoke rising from someone's kitchen at the end of the riverbank? From that moment, for some reason, I felt my heart calm down, becoming more serene and profound. Perched on the buffalo's back, leisurely traversing the winding red dirt roads shrouded in the evening mist, my eyes welled up with tears as I watched my mother still diligently working with her hoe in the dry, barren field. Was her thin, frail back soaked with sweat, or with the silent mist...?

I remember those moonlit nights, the village sleeping peacefully beneath a magical atmosphere, a blend of soft night mist and bright moonlight. In the small courtyard, only Mother remained awake, diligently attending to countless chores. Even so, she never forgot to come inside and tuck a thin blanket around my chest when the wind began to grow cold and the mist thickened. Pretending to close my eyes as if asleep, I faintly smelled the lingering mist on Mother's patched dress. The scent of the mist followed me even into my warm dreams. How many more nights will the mist keep me company, Mother?

As I grew older, every time I gazed at the mist, I would spontaneously write random, rambling thoughts. Once, I likened the delicate mist to the hopeless waiting of love. And the budding feelings between me and my classmate were like a game of hide-and-seek in the mist. We thought everything was so close, yet it was so far away, like the small hands of childhood that, no matter how hard we tried, could never reach the pure dewdrops. After the breakup of my first love, I would return to my mother's embrace, sobbing like a child. The scent of mist on her chest awakened a realm of nostalgia within me…

I've lived through over twenty seasons of mist. Each misty season brings another pang of longing for my mother. Only now do I realize how many times my mother woke up early and stayed up late, enduring the wind and dew, to get me to where I am today. Her hair is gradually turning gray from the mist, and I never knew it. I still maintain the habit of watching the mist every morning, but not to try and catch some fleeting wisp of mist passing by, but to pray that the mist won't soak my mother's clothes on her arduous journeys to earn a living. Thinking of this season in my distant homeland, my mother, wearing her straw hat, swaying precariously as she carries her burdens through the cold mist, I can't help but feel a pang of sadness…

Winter is coming… I suddenly fear that after this foggy season, I will no longer see the black color in my mother's hair. And right now, I want to put aside my busy work and run through the foggy season to be with my mother, to be with her sweet, gentle love…

Phan Duc Loc