'My Mother'
My mother is a farmer, an ordinary farmer to anyone, but the very special one to me. Her face is wrinkle not just because of her age but also a long time of hard work in the rice farm. Her black, mingled with white, hair goes to different directions since the sun is very strong. It's not necessary for her to keep it neat for good looking is time wasting in rice farm maintaining. Her complexion is deeply dark since she does not know what is the sunblock. Her mouth is painted red by Isaan gum-the natural beauty. Once I was fed by the minced sticky rice out of her dark red mouth. I do not remember but I was once told that I never denied but always hungered for it. My mother's two hands are rough and dark. These dark and rough hands were once holding me when I was a babe, gave me a pang when I was not a good boy and have been working so hard and have me what I am today.
One of those warm moments I always bring it back when I miss her. In the middle of dry rice farm, the straw is standing dead in the cold December. There, a small open air shelter was standing alone. The winter wind was cold-heartedly stroming an almost white mostquito net. It was swung violently. Inside there, a little son was in bed. Not so long, a middle age mother came into the net, managing all edges of the net before she wrapped her little boy and herself with a big fold of solf blankets. The fellows; buffalo, hens, cocks, chicken, ducks and other livestocks, were shivering with cold in their den, but the little boy was having a good night sleep in his mother warm hug. It was one of the warmest night in deadly winter time.โหลดเพลง
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