They say Chun(春）’s like the eldest son.
She inherited her father’s land, paid all his hospital bills, and never once complained.
She works like the men do—planting tobacco, carrying manure, chopping wood, picking tea.
One day, she picked nearly 20 pounds of tea leaves.
She jokes about her dark skin, calls herself “a woman born to suffer.”
But when I saw her crouched in the field planting sweet potatoes,
I saw not hardship, but strength.
She doesn’t speak much.
Her face is tanned, her hands rough, but her cooking—
warm, familiar, unforgettable.
At village gatherings, she says little.
She hands over a small gift, walks into the kitchen, and gets to work.
By the firewood stove, she belongs.
When serving food, she always says,
“It’s just something simple.”
We always say,
“Tastes better than anything in town.”
She’s the backbone of her home.
A mother. A sister. A quiet kind of hero
She doesn’t cry.
Her tears become sweat,
and her sweat grows food, life, and spring.
You may not notice the season change.
But when the seeds sprout,
when the tea buds break,
and when the trees bloom—
you’ll know she’s been there.
Chun春, her name, is Chinese for spring season.
