Prosecutor’s Literary Garden | Growth in the Vegetable Patch

I have a deep affection for my mother's vegetable garden.

Starting from primary school grades one and two, whenever there was fresh produce to sell, my mother would wake me up around three or four in the morning to harvest vegetables. I would listen to the rooster's crow and light candles as I went to the vegetable garden to pick. It wouldn't be until around six in the morning that I would return home, wearing damp socks and trousers, to cook breakfast. My mother was particularly diligent; the vegetable garden was almost never empty, so picking vegetables was a very frequent occurrence, regardless of the season. I particularly liked picking morning glory vines – the crisp sound of snapping them was enough to dispel my reluctance to work. But I dreaded picking spinach; my mother treated the vegetables she grew as her 'masterpiece,' so she would insist I pick the spinach and carefully remove the soil, then select and arrange the decaying and yellow leaves neatly before rinsing them. Finally, she would bundle them into stacks of straw. It wasn't until junior high school that, due to evening self-study, I had to be up at seven for morning classes, and my mother no longer called me out.

My mother's land nurtured me and also tempered me. As a young boy, I was frustrated that I was the eldest child; if I had younger siblings, I could have had a peaceful sleep without being woken up to pick vegetables or work during holidays. But looking back, I realize that this little experience is nothing compared to the struggles of others. Some people have spent their whole lives struggling in hardship, yet have never tasted a drop of sweetness. I was so fortunate, even when my father unexpectedly passed away during my junior high school years, my mother didn't let me go out into society prematurely. This further strengthened my determination and, later in my career, I began to find joy and satisfaction in my work.

Now, my mother grows fewer vegetables, mainly for her own family, and she still insists on asking her neighbors for help. When I visit my mother, I bring my daughter to the vegetable garden to show her, and I tell her two stories about my mother.

Life is indeed challenging, and I am learning to cherish it. I thank that vegetable garden and my mother.