Having finished my workout—push-ups until my chest burns, squats until my legs tremble—I wipe the sweat off my face and head to the kitchen. Mom is already there, humming something old, almost forgotten. Her voice weaves into the morning light, making it warmer. Her movements are measured, confident—the movements of a woman who knows the value of time.
" Good morning, Mom. How can I help you?" I try not to let on how my breath is still shaking from the exercises.
She turns around, wiping her hands on her apron, the smile that mothers reserve for their children flickering across her face.
" Good morning, son. Are you a strong man?" the question was almost rhetorical, with an intonation that suggested a request.
" Very strong," I answer with childish bravado, although I understand that my strength is still more in my intentions than in my muscles. "What do you need?"
" Go to the spring and get some water. There's only one bucket left, but we need a lot—for cooking and for storage."
" How many buckets?" I ask matter-of-factly, plotting the route.
" Take the cart, four buckets will be enough," a mother's voice was filled with concern. "Don't take more, I'm afraid for your back. You're still growing."
" I'll be back soon," I promise, heading towards the exit.
Approaching the cart—old, creaky, but faithful companion to our household needs—I think. Four buckets are good, but Mom will still have to ask for help. Wouldn't it be better to take more? There's pleasure in doing a little more than expected. A small rebellion against established boundaries, a quiet declaration of one's own will.
I'm loading sixteen empty buckets into the cart—better to strain myself a little now than have Mom carry water one bucket at a time. Although, I admit, there was a bit of youthful vanity in my decision—I wanted to show I was old enough. Pride is a cunning thing, able to disguise itself as noble intentions.
As I push the cart, I catch myself thinking: the creaking of the wheels sounds louder than my breathing. The earth stubbornly holds me, as if testing my resolve. Sweat runs down my face, and with every step I feel the weight not only of the load but also of my own thoughts. Strength isn't about suppressing, but about holding on, dragging, not breaking prematurely.
Muscles merely propel the body forward, but true weight carries choice. Caring for another sometimes requires more courage than fighting. There's no weakness in this—it's like water, which yields but wears away stone; like fire, which destroys but also warms. In the balance of opposites lies a strength that makes no noise, is not conspicuous—it simply walks alongside, patiently and quietly, while others stumble.
Even the simple act of carrying water can have meaning. Life is all about carrying buckets. Some carry water, some carry responsibility, some carry their own illusions. The main thing is that the buckets don't have any holes, and that we carry the load not because it's easy, but because we have to.