Legend of the White Chrysanthemum

Early in the morning, before the mist has lifted, white chrysanthemums open quietly in the garden. Their petals are thin as silk and white as snow, set in a thick ring around a tiny yellow center. There are far too many petals to count. And behind each of those fragile petals lies an old tale that grown-ups still tell to children. It is the tale of a daughter and her boundless love for her mother.

This is a folktale that children in Vietnam have heard for many years. Many people believe it first came from Japan.

Long ago, the story goes, a little girl lived with her mother in a small house at the edge of a village. There were just the two of them, together from morning to night. The mother worked hard to raise her child, and the child grew up at her mother's side. They loved each other in the simplest ways: the meals the mother cooked, her voice calling her daughter's name each evening, and her warm hand stroking the girl's hair before sleep.

Then one day, the mother fell ill.

The illness crept in quietly, but it grew worse and worse. The mother lay in bed, unable to rise, her face pale and her breath weak. Watching her, the girl felt her heart tighten. She ran all through the village and the hamlets around it asking for help, but no one knew of a cure. Still, she would not give up. She quickly wrapped a small ball of rice, asked her mother's leave, and set out alone to find medicine.

She passed through many villages, asking everyone she met. Everyone shook their heads. Everyone said they did not know. Her small legs grew tired, but she did not turn back. Then, on an empty road, she met an elder with hair as white as silk thread, resting at the foot of a tree by the roadside. The elder looked at the girl with kind eyes and asked, "Child, where are you going all alone, in such a hurry?"

The girl told the whole story of her mother's illness. The elder listened and nodded slowly.

"On top of that high mountain, among the cliff rocks, grows a flower that can save your mother," the elder said. "It is the white chrysanthemum. Climb up there, find one, and bring it home for her to drink. But remember one thing, my child. However many petals the flower has, that is how many more years your mother will live."

The girl bowed her head in thanks, then turned toward the mountain and walked on.

The way up the mountain was not easy. The slopes rose steep and sheer, and the jagged rocks were slick and wet. The girl slipped and fell, then got back up. Thorns scratched her hands, and she brushed them aside and kept going. Only one thought filled her mind. She had to find that flower and bring it home to save her mother.

And then, among the cold gray boulders on the mountaintop, the girl saw it. A single white chrysanthemum bloomed alone in a crack in the rock. It was pure white, with a soft scent like early morning. She carefully picked the flower and held it up in both hands, as if it were the most precious thing in her life.

Then she counted. There were only a few petals.

The girl stood very still. If the flower had only a few petals, her mother would live only a few more years. That was too few. She wanted her mother to live many, many more years, so many that no one could count them.

Then an idea came to her.

She sat down at the foot of a rock and laid the flower gently in her palm. Then she began. Taking one thin petal at a time, she used her fingernail to split it softly along its length. It came apart into two strands, then four, then ten. She worked very lightly and very carefully, so that nothing would break. One petal became ten strands. Ten strands became twenty. On she went, from one petal to the next. Her small hands trembled with care, and her eyes were red from worry and from the mountain wind, but she did not stop.

She kept splitting and splitting, until there were far too many strands to count.

Holding the white chrysanthemum close to her chest, the girl followed the same path down the mountain and went straight home. Her mother drank the medicine made from the flower. Day after day, the rosy color slowly returned to her mother's face. On the morning her mother could sit up and take her daughter's hand, the girl could only bury her face in it and cry.

People of old say that ever since that day, white chrysanthemums have grown with a great many small petals. They are delicate and pure white, set in thick rings around a yellow center. No one can count them all. They are the mark of the little girl's hands long ago, splitting the flower from the mountaintop into fine strands. A few more years for her mother were not enough. She wanted her mother to live many, many more years.

Each fine strand is a year the girl wished to give her mother. Each petal is a moment when her hands pulled it apart, out of a love for her mother too deep for words.

Her small hands trembled on the cold, windy mountaintop, splitting and splitting, because no number was ever large enough to measure a child's love for her mother.