Mother and January

January is like a door closing the old year and entering the new year with excitement, aspirations, and joy.

Every time January comes, I often think of my mother. My mother, who spent her whole life taking care of her children, forgetting herself, forgetting her old age. In the late nights, did she hear each strand of hair whispering gray? The hair turned from night to day, the hair seemed to have been polished through the sun, rain, wind and frost, the hair seemed to be a thread for sewing a lifetime, weaving many feelings, polishing all the joys and sorrows, hoping that everything would be whole, everything would be complete, everything would be square and round. To my mother, the two words “perfection” were a wish, a desire, a dedication. When I was born, my mother’s first wish was: “No matter what I lose, I will lose, but you will never lack anything, my child.” And a full January, a fresh January, a pure January has come to my mother. The garden trees sprouted new green buds. Oh, the eyes and leaves like the imprint of lips, just like: “my job is to be green”, just like sparkling in the sun, the spring sun came with a gentle surprise, the sun seemed to return to light, revive chlorophyll.

Dear mother, every time I think of you, I feel a pang in my heart when I encounter the sympathy and love in the poem "Mother and Fruit" by poet Nguyen Khoa Diem: "We grew up from your hands/ And the squashes and gourds grew down". And: "I'm afraid that one day your hands will get tired/ I still have a green fruit". January is full of love, January is the month of silt and gratitude that my mother started by sowing seeds, peanuts, beans at the beginning of the year. My mother planted fresh young rice seedlings. My mother started from such small things, from such trembling to nurture hopes that overcome all the worries of her life.

January is the festival season with so many plans, so many wishes, so much anxious waiting as time slowly slows down. Mother's steps are so leisurely and carefree when crossing the circular dike, the familiar market, and the many undulating fields to leisurely go to the pagoda. January is like a walking stick for mother to slow down her steps, to count her age so that the betel leaves away wrinkles, brightening her skin and making her smile bright. But in January, mother is no longer full of worries, mother was born to worry about shortages, about the fullness and emptiness, mother rarely multiplied but often shared, rarely added but often subtracted. There is provision, there is worry about saving and accumulating. The two words "enough" rarely come to mother, but there is always a feeling of lack. Mother is never free, just a small square of brick yard that mother dries, mother sweeps, mother sifts, and breaks all year round. Mom often calls December “the death anniversary” because there are so many things to worry about in the days leading up to Tet that it is not until January that Mom can immerse herself in the wandering moments with the steady sound of wooden fish, counting the beads of time’s cycle. January has returned to Mom the tenderness and love, the deep spiritual affection, in a humane dreamland to balance the worries and troubles of the Tet holiday that has just passed. January is like a humane addition, added to the festival with so much sharing, added to the spring blessings with so much fresh joy, added to the young sunshine with so much sweet anticipation. And after January and February, March comes back. March with so many colors of flowers: white grapefruit flowers, purple xoan flowers and red cotton flowers, blending together like the white of lime, the dark green of betel leaves, the brown of areca nuts for the rich, bright red betel juice. In the January weather, the fog still shines with unbroken spring sunshine. “January is cold, February is cold”, in the cold there is still the echo of the warmth of human love, that is the blessing of life, the blessing of so much love and kindness.

Spring is the most beautiful season to start a new year with so much faith and love. January has opened the door to shine from the human soul to the vitality of nature. January is the season to pick spring buds, I am even more moved with sympathy for the verses touching the human world, the world of the poet Vu Da Phuong: "Spring goes to pick spring buds/ Fragrant flowers to give to friends, buds to give to you/ Raise hand to pick several times/ Seeing the pure spring but then stop". The hesitation, the regret, the choice are so humane. That is also the time when I think of my mother with a full January, a January full of youthful excitement, a January that passes through so much old to give to life, to give to people so much new. January is also the image of my mother - oh mother!