Mother, My Dry Wood Bundle

By Zhu Chengyu

When I was working out of town, Mother told me in one of her letters, “All the plums I planted for you are already ripe, falling to the ground one by one. The last one has fallen to the ground and yet you haven’t returned.”

I suddenly envisioned her laboring under the plum tree picking up every last plum in sorrow. How lonely she must have felt at that moment!

I also envisioned her crooked figure, as if the dry wood I depended upon for warmth in winter. The day-to-day labor in the fields has made Mother a little hunchbacked, which makes her look a bit like my aged grandmother, who was so hunched over that it was almost like she could kiss her own shoe at any moment, as if a sad little semicircle.

Now, my mother is also on the way to being a “sad little semicircle.” How many disappointments has she endured in her life, and how much hope does she have leaning there tottering against the doorframe and watching us as we make our way home!

Why couldn’t I have gotten home earlier?

When I was a kid, each autumn Mother would often take me to the outskirts of the forest to cut down the brush for firewood. At that time, she was still strong and had no hunchback, so she always hoisted a big bundle of choppings onto her sturdy back with the greatest of ease. She could even play with me without thinking twice. But now years later, it is the word “dry firewood” that I use to best describe my mother.

Mother carried the burden of the whole family on her back, and kindled warmth for us. Even if the burden was so heavy that she could not bear to switch the load to the other shoulder, she plodded forward anyway, all for the sake of love. Mother was resilient and reticent for her whole life, just for the sake of building a fire in the hearth for the family.

In Mother’s thin and frail physique my eyes see only beauty and strength. I would often give her pillow for her back and sit with her daydreaming and whiling away morning after morning. No matter how I saw myself running away fast and free in my dreams,I couldn’t escape from the sorrow in her gaz.

在外地工作的時候，母親在給我的信中說：留給你的一樹李子，熟透了，一個一個落到地上，最后一個都落了，你還沒回來。

我仿佛看到母親站在那李子樹下，憂傷地撿起最后一個李子，內心該是怎樣的落寞和荒……

我看到了那個佝僂著的身影，那一把我賴以取暖的干柴。

終生的勞碌讓母親駝了背，這一點和外婆很像，外婆老的時候，腰彎得厲害，隨時都有吻到腳背的可能，看上去，仿佛一個悲傷的句號。

如今，母親也在通往“句號”的路上。母親這一生承受著多少失望，又扶著多少希望，倚在風雨飄搖的門框，望著我們回家的路啊！

我為何不能早一點邁進她的門檻？

小時候的深秋，母親常常帶著我去郊外割荒草回家做引火柴，那時候母親力氣很大，腰也不駝，所以她的柴火總是很大的一捆，母親扛在肩頭一點也不吃力，甚至不妨礙和我玩耍。沒想到，很多年后，能讓我最確切地形容母親的詞匯，竟然就是這把干柴。

母親扛著家的重擔，也扛著一家人的暖，因為愛，那擔子再重，她都不忍換一下肩膀。母親低眉順眼了一輩子，只為了給家的灶膛里添一把柴火。

母親孤單的背影是我眼中的繁華。以此為枕，推開一個又一個清晨。任我怎樣在夢里奔騰，也走不過她目光里的哀涼。

沒有玩具，母親給我們做。縫沙包，扎毽子，用硬一點的紙畫撲克，我們的童年其樂融融。貧窮讓我們消瘦，卻并未讓我們晦暗，為了在風中喚醒一盞燈籠，母親耗盡了整整一生的火柴。

母親骨子里是個浪漫的人，但凡父親單位里發了電影票，不管刮風下雨還是北風呼號，都會領著我去看，我記不住片子的內容，記住了母親的懷抱，那種溫暖讓人貪戀，往往電影還沒看完，我就睡著了。回去的路上，母親叫不醒我，只好背著我，怕我感冒，就用她的外套蒙著我的頭，自己穿著單薄的襯衫闖進風里，扣子開了，也來不及去系，像一本被打開的經書，讓我念誦不已。

我貪玩，黑天了也沒回家，母親出來尋找，一遍一遍喚著我的名字。很遠我就能聽見，手提燈籠的母親是離我身體最近的一片海。

母親這把干柴，越來越輕了。我們和歲月都是榨汁機，壓榨得母親，再也滴不出一滴汁液來。

母親老了，生病的時候，我抱著她上手術臺，母親很輕，骨頭仿佛都變成空心的，一點分量都沒有。讓我想起在生活的最低谷，母親掉著眼淚說：“如果誰肯把我買了去，我倒也樂意，給你們換幾頓飽飯！”

可是母親這把干柴，賣不上好價錢，又輕又瘦的一捆，誰都不肯瞧上一眼。

We had no toys to speak of, so Mother would make them for us.Sewing the little bean sack, tying the shuttlecocks together with feathers, and drawing poker cards with cardboards, she filled our childhood with joy. Poverty might have slimmed down our belly,but it didn’t douse the fire in our heart. To light up a lantern in the wind, Mother had to run out of“matches” all her life.

She was such a romantic woman that, whenever my father’s work handed out free movie tickets, come rain or shine she would hold my hand and walk me to the cinema. I couldn’t remember what the movies were, but I could remember my mother’s arms. The warmth made me cling to her, I would fall asleep before the movie was over. On the way home, Mother couldn’t wake me up, she had to carry me the whole way. Afraid that I would catch a cold, she covered my head with her coat and trod headfirst into the wind in nothing but her thin blouse. Even if the buttons were loose, she had no time to fasten them up again. They stayed open like a Bible held open to the page of an important scripture recited over and over again by a congregation in a darkened chapel.

I was so playful that I wouldn’t go home when the night fell.Mother went out to look for me calling my name once and again.Far away I could hear her. The lantern Mother carried emanated a sea of light whose waves lapped at my body.

Mother, my dry wood bundle,just keeps getting lighter and lighter. It’s as if time and tide is a juicer squeezing out every last drop of juice from her.

有一次回家小住，我執意睡在母親身邊，像小時候那樣，依偎著她。孩子好奇地問：“爸爸，你這么大了，為啥還讓奶奶抱啊。”我說：“爸爸雖然長大了，可是在你奶奶眼里，爸爸永遠是個孩子。”

母親可以變得越來越小，但是她的懷抱卻永遠遼闊。

那一夜，我在和母親有關的夢里取暖，習慣性失眠的母親，她的夢又在哪個角落里漂移呢？

夢里的母親步履蹣跚，可不知為何，我怎么追也追不上她！

She eventually got old. When she was sick, I carried her on the operating table. She got so light that her bones seemed to be hollow and weightless.It reminded me of the lowest valley in life, and my mother said tearfully, “If anyone would pay even a small price for me, I would gladly exchange myself for a few meals for you to eat!”

But Mother—my dry wood bundle—would never sell at a good price. Such a light and thin bundle that no one would be willing to even have a look at.

Once I got home, I insisted on sleeping right next to her,just like I did in my childhood,snuggling up next to her to feel her penetrating warmth keeping my soul at peace. My child asked curiously, “Dad, you are so old.Why do you let Grandma hug you?” I replied, “Dad has grown up, but in your grandma’s eyes,I’m always her little baby.”

Though Mother may get smaller in stature by the day, her arms will always be as vast as the plains and the sea.

That night, I was being warmed in a dream about my mother.Suffering from habitual insomnia,which lonely corner would her dream drift to?

I n m y d r e a m, s h e w a s stumbling and plodding along,but I did not know why I couldn’t catch up with her.

(Translation: Qing Run)