There’s something magical about the smell of smoke from a coal stove. It has a way of carrying me back through the years, to a time when life was simpler, warmer—full of love and laughter. My earliest memory is sitting with my mother, polishing the black coal stove until it gleamed. The silver trimmings caught the light, a testament to the care and pride she put into creating a home.

Those moments weren’t just about chores; they were a ritual of connection. In the kitchen, surrounded by the comforting warmth of the stove, the family would gather. The scent of meals cooking, hearty and nourishing, was an invitation to togetherness. It was more than just a place to prepare food; it was the hearth, the heart of our home.

Now, when I think back, it feels less like a memory and more like a dream—a dream of days gone by, when love was a tangible thing. My mother was the anchor of those moments, her presence wrapping us in a sense of belonging.

Today, things are different. My mother lives far away, and the cruel irony of life is that she can no longer recognize me as her son. Our conversations are fleeting, strained by distance and the merciless passage of time. Thankfully, my sisters are close to her and can ensure her needs are met, but the closeness we once shared is no longer there.

The ache of nostalgia is a bittersweet thing. It reminds me of how it felt to be loved and cared for unconditionally. Now, as the breadwinner, the roles have reversed. I am the one others rely on, the provider, the protector. While I’m proud to fill that role, it contrasts starkly with the carefree days when I could bask in the warmth of being someone’s child.

The coal stove remains a symbol of that love—a bridge to a time when happiness was as simple as sitting by the fire, feeling the presence of family. Even now, that smell can bring it all back, a flicker of light in the solitude of memory. It’s a reminder that while the present may demand strength, the past will always offer its quiet comfort.