Illustration: HORIZONTAL
During the first years without parents, my grandparents were my whole world , the peaceful support for me to grow up. I was born weak, only 1.8 kg, pale skin, gasping for breath in the midst of a terrible disease. The neighbors looked at me and shook their heads in pity, everyone thought I would not survive, but my grandmother did not give up. She held me tightly in her arms, took me everywhere to seek treatment, clinging to the most fragile ray of hope. There was no more breast milk, and powdered milk was rare at that time. There were days when my grandmother had to carry me and walk for kilometers, knocking on the doors of every house with a small child to ask for milk for me. Many nights, I cried inconsolably, my grandmother stayed up all night to comfort me with a lullaby, trembling in the cold wind. Throughout the difficult months, my grandmother held me, cared for me, and steadfastly kept my small life like keeping a flame in a storm.
To me, my grandmother is the most gentle grandmother in the world. Every morning when she goes to the market, she always buys me gifts, sometimes baked sweet potatoes, sometimes banana cakes, sometimes orange cakes. My grandmother is good at literature. She preserves the treasure trove of folk culture with her love and wonderful memory. She knows by heart many folk songs, proverbs and poems. When I was little, every night before going to bed, she often reads me sweet six-eight verses. She also tells me many fairy tales, sometimes the story of the star apple tree, sometimes the story of Thach Sanh fighting the ogre or the gentle Tam. Her voice is gentle and warm, each word seems to penetrate my heart, sowing the seeds of love for literature in me. But more than that, she teaches me to love people like the way she lives. I remember one time when my family had a death anniversary, I had finished eating, but she still left some dishes that I liked. I was about to put away the food when a skinny old woman came to my house to beg for food. My grandmother looked at me and said softly:
- This is my sister, can I give her this?
I gave the food to the beggar without hesitation. Many years later, when my grandmother's real sister came to visit from far away, I asked her if she remembered the story of me giving her food. She looked at me in surprise, not understanding, and asked my grandmother again. Only then did I realize that my grandmother had lied, but it was a beautiful lie, planting in me the first seed of kindness.
I grew up in the protective arms of my grandparents, in a simple house but always filled with love. Every winter, my grandmother spread dry banana leaves on the bed to try it out, and when it was warm enough, she called me to sleep, while she went out to the porch to cut vegetables for the pigs in the cold wind. When I was young, there was no electricity like now, every hot summer, my grandmother often sat next to me and fanned me to sleep. The simple palm leaf fan swayed with the rhythm of her skinny hands, carrying both the cool wind and her love for me.
My grandfather was a teacher, also the first teacher in my life who held my hand to teach me how to write my first strokes. His small room was filled with books, smelling of old paper when the wind blew through the window every summer afternoon. He had a habit of smoking but never smoked indoors. Every time he wanted to take a puff, he would go out to the alley, standing still in the shimmering afternoon light so that the smoke would not harm my grandmother and me. He liked to watch the news, but when I studied, he always turned the volume down to the lowest level, just enough for him to hear without disturbing me. I grew up with the hum of the TV in the living room and with the gentle respect he showed me. He was also a learned man, with a wide range of knowledge, from mathematics, history, geography to my naive questions when I was little, he patiently explained them in simple and easy-to-understand words. My childhood was therefore always interesting, full of discoveries .
When I was in 8th grade, my grandparents moved to Da Lat to live, and I followed my father to Kien Giang . Then I went to university, and every summer, I returned to Da Lat to stay with my grandmother for half a month. Even though the car arrived at 3am, my grandmother still turned on the lights and waited for me in the house. At night, even though I stayed out late, my grandparents still waited for me to come home before going to sleep. My grandmother still had the habit of hanging a mosquito net for me like when I was little. Every time I left Da Lat for Kien Giang , my grandmother stood at the gate, watching me until my shadow disappeared behind the familiar slope.
My grandparents’ love was not noisy but always full and warm like a fire in the middle of winter. Now, every time I see old books, I miss him. Every time I see an old person on the street, I see her small figure, her back bent, carrying a basket to the market early. My grandparents raised me with all their silent sacrifices and unconditional love.
Growing up, being able to live independently and strongly, I always remind myself to live kindly like my grandparents did. To me, my grandparents are my parents, my sacred home, my peaceful support. And, the small house of the past, where banana leaves covered the bed on winter nights, where cigarette smoke quietly drifted outside the alley, where my grandfather read a book in the quiet summer noon, will forever be the warm place in my life.
Source: https://baoangiang.com.vn/cho-am-doi-toi-a424941.html
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