A Grandmother’s Love

My childhood, wrapped in the loving embrace of my grandmother, remains one of the most cherished and beautiful chapters of my life. As the Vietnamese writer Thạch Lam once said, “Homeland is the eternal lamp burning in our hearts.” For me, that “lamp” was my grandmother, who nurtured my earliest years with warmth, care, and boundless love.

I vividly recall the day she arrived at our house. It was a quiet morning, and she came with a calm and steady demeanor, carrying a basket filled with the essence of her countryside life: sticky rice cakes, peanut candies, and freshly laid eggs that were still warm. “Wherever I go, I bring a piece of home with me so that you’ll always remember your roots,” she told me with a smile.

For three years, she devoted herself entirely to raising me while my parents worked tirelessly to secure a better future for our family. She wasn’t just a caretaker; she was my world. Each morning, she would rise before dawn, even when the winter fog lingered thick in the air. She would carefully select the freshest green tea leaves from our garden and brew fragrant cups of roasted rice water to keep me warm. She made even the simplest tasks feel special.

Her hands, worn yet gentle, were always busy creating little wonders for me. She showed me how to weave grass leaves into delicate paper swallows, teaching me not just a craft but also the beauty of finding joy in small things. If I broke something by accident, she would fix it without a word of reprimand, her patience as enduring as the seasons.

Evenings with my grandmother were magical. She would sit by my side, her lap my favorite pillow, and tell me stories of her youth, of folklore, and of the world beyond our small home. Her voice, soft and soothing, was like a lullaby that carried me into dreams. “Little stork, where do you live? How far is the blue sky from the earth?” she would ask, her words painting vivid images in my mind. I never had answers, but I didn’t need to. All I wanted was to stay in her warm embrace and listen to her tales forever.

When I turned six, she decided it was time to return to the countryside to live with my grandfather. That day remains etched in my memory. She hugged me tightly, her frail arms trembling slightly, and I felt her tears dampen my hair. “Be good and study hard,” she said. “I may be far away, but I’ll always think of you.”

Her departure left a void in my young heart. The house felt quieter, colder without her. Yet, even as life went on, her presence lingered in the smallest details—the scent of roasted rice, the songs she sang, the way she folded clothes with precision and care.

Years passed, and life’s inevitable changes carried her farther away until she was no longer a part of this world. Standing before her grave on a recent visit to my hometown, I was overcome with regret. I wished I had more time to tell her all the good things in my life, to brew her a cup of tea just as she had done for me countless times.

Even though she is no longer here, my grandmother lives on in my memories. She is there in the folk songs she taught me, in the stories that shaped my childhood, and in the values she instilled in me. “The little stork walks along the bamboo…” Her songs still echo in my mind, guiding me back to the simplicity and innocence of my early years.

To me, my grandmother wasn’t just a guardian—she was love itself. Her sacrifices, her unwavering patience, and her boundless kindness were the foundation of my early life. In my heart, she occupies a place so high and sacred that no one else could ever replace her.

Each day, I imagine her smiling down at me, her arms outstretched to welcome me back to the village where I first knew what it meant to be loved unconditionally. My grandmother may be gone, but she remains an eternal presence in my life, her love a beacon that lights my path even now.