That summer when I graduated from college was of memorables. After I got off the train at the small town, it was still rather far to reach my home; for a poor student the most often vehicle was his feet those days. I walked through the country roads. As I was drawing near, gradually I could feel my bright forehead with sweet. Then I saw clearly my mother was leaning against the back door in the afternoon sun. The smoke from the kitchen chimney was rising slowly, gradually thinned and at last overlapped. When I was standing in front of her, calling "mum", she just stared at me. I understood her euphoria when I returned from college. Then she moved back to the steaming kitchen range. I found she hobbled along more difficult than ever before.
The supper that evening was extraordinary ordinary, because she couldn't really make me a sumptuous feast. After supper she, though, took out an apple with a wrinkly skin which treasured for long . I was eating it while looking up at the wrinkles all around mum's face. I couldn't taste much freshness of it but rotten spots really.
Until then, I didn't find she had something of uncomfortableness. She still did the washing while I told her some stories at college, and was eating her apple for me, watching her wrinkled but smiling face. Then I showed her my diploma. She just stared at me, faintly smiled. She spoke through her eyes and I understood.
That night, I slept soundly until I was woken up by the moans. I went to her bedroom, called "mum", and heard her response "it doesn't matter". Then I went back to sleep. During her last years, she'd always stay on her own, work even longer hours, looking feebler. This didn't draw my attention so much. She was my mother.
Then another day I was woken up by the thunder when I was taking a nap. I jumped out of bed to the yard. I was surprised to see mother tumbled at the edge of the sunning ground, with some firewood in a mess beside her. She stretched out her arms to the ground, trying to climb up, but she didn't succeed. Rain drops were already falling and hitting on her graying head and feeble shoulders. But it was suddenly extremely tranquil in my eye. I rushed to pull her up. She was so heavy, I found. She almost leaned against me so that it took me that much energy. However, there was full self-reliance in her once in the past. I patted the dust off her clothes. She tottered and stood up. There was one moment that she nearly fell down again. I grabbed her hand. I was feeling her calloused hands with ground-in dirt. I complained severely, "I told you not to do this. I told you to rest in the house. I told you just to wake me up. I told you..." Then suddenly I calmed down myself, helped her to sit down. She just stared at me vulnerably, then sighed, dropped her head, began to moan. Seemingly, I was peeped into deep heart how I could treat her with such patronizing disregard. I felt sorry, yet I wasn't willing to do so; I wasn't deliberate. How I hoped she could order me about, that she could give me any sense of responsibility.
However, I felt distressed. Mother still struggled to cook for us. That night I heard even louder moans...
From then on, I contented to do some housework, sometimes she struggled to help, but more often she didn't have much energy to do so, while propping herself up in and around the house.
I realized I could do something for mother, for the family finally. I felt a little released. After work from the backward country school, when I stepped into the yard, I always met with mother's staring eyes first (smiling back), somewhat turbid, which was the last spirit from her skinny and wizened body crooked in the bamboo chair. From there I still gained the courage, confidence and support.
But unfortunately, one year after, I lost this support for ever and ever.
联系客服
