I had my first taste of strawberries when I was about eight years old. At the time, my family and I were living in a small city in the central-western part of China. Life was simple, but filled with warmth.
One spring, my mother somehow managed to get hold of a few strawberry seedlings and planted them in a corner of our balcony flowerbed. As she gently loosened the soil, she smiled and told me, “By June, you’ll be able to eat strawberries we’ve grown ourselves.”
From that day on, I followed my mother out to the balcony every day to check on the little plants. She carefully watered them with leftover rice water and removed weeds by hand, treating them as if they were something truly precious. I tried to copy her, crouching beside the flowerbed, watching the leaves grow, filled with eager anticipation.
By June, the plants had really borne fruit—small, red strawberries, their surface dotted with tiny seeds like sesame. I’ll never forget the look on my mother’s face as she picked the first one and handed it to me. I took a bite, and the sweet-and-sour taste burst in my mouth. In that moment, it planted itself deep in my memory.
It wasn’t just the taste of strawberries—it was the taste of childhood, of patience rewarded, and of my mother’s gentle love.
