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.

在外地工作的时候，母亲在给我的信中说：留给你的一树李子，熟透了，一个一个落到地上，最后一个都落了，你还没回来。

我仿佛看到母亲站在那李子树下，忧伤地捡起最后一个李子，内心该是怎样的落寞和荒……

我看到了那个佝偻着的身影，那一把我赖以取暖的干柴。

终生的劳碌让母亲驼了背，这一点和外婆很像，外婆老的时候，腰弯得厉害，随时都有吻到脚背的可能，看上去，仿佛一个悲伤的句号。

如今，母亲也在通往“句号”的路上。母亲这一生承受着多少失望，又扶着多少希望，倚在风雨飘摇的门框，望着我们回家的路啊！

我为何不能早一点迈进她的门槛？

小时候的深秋，母亲常常带着我去郊外割荒草回家做引火柴，那时候母亲力气很大，腰也不驼，所以她的柴火总是很大的一捆，母亲扛在肩头一点也不吃力，甚至不妨碍和我玩耍。没想到，很多年后，能让我最确切地形容母亲的词汇，竟然就是这把干柴。

母亲扛着家的重担，也扛着一家人的暖，因为爱，那担子再重，她都不忍换一下肩膀。母亲低眉顺眼了一辈子，只为了给家的灶膛里添一把柴火。

母亲孤单的背影是我眼中的繁华。以此为枕，推开一个又一个清晨。任我怎样在梦里奔腾，也走不过她目光里的哀凉。

没有玩具，母亲给我们做。缝沙包，扎毽子，用硬一点的纸画扑克，我们的童年其乐融融。贫穷让我们消瘦，却并未让我们晦暗，为了在风中唤醒一盏灯笼，母亲耗尽了整整一生的火柴。

母亲骨子里是个浪漫的人，但凡父亲单位里发了电影票，不管刮风下雨还是北风呼号，都会领着我去看，我记不住片子的内容，记住了母亲的怀抱，那种温暖让人贪恋，往往电影还没看完，我就睡着了。回去的路上，母亲叫不醒我，只好背着我，怕我感冒，就用她的外套蒙着我的头，自己穿着单薄的衬衫闯进风里，扣子开了，也来不及去系，像一本被打开的经书，让我念诵不已。

我贪玩，黑天了也没回家，母亲出来寻找，一遍一遍唤着我的名字。很远我就能听见，手提灯笼的母亲是离我身体最近的一片海。

母亲这把干柴，越来越轻了。我们和岁月都是榨汁机，压榨得母亲，再也滴不出一滴汁液来。

母亲老了，生病的时候，我抱着她上手术台，母亲很轻，骨头仿佛都变成空心的，一点分量都没有。让我想起在生活的最低谷，母亲掉着眼泪说：“如果谁肯把我买了去，我倒也乐意，给你们换几顿饱饭！”

可是母亲这把干柴，卖不上好价钱，又轻又瘦的一捆，谁都不肯瞧上一眼。

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，我执意睡在母亲身边，像小时候那样，依偎着她。孩子好奇地问：“爸爸，你这么大了，为啥还让奶奶抱啊。”我说：“爸爸虽然长大了，可是在你奶奶眼里，爸爸永远是个孩子。”

母亲可以变得越来越小，但是她的怀抱却永远辽阔。

那一夜，我在和母亲有关的梦里取暖，习惯性失眠的母亲，她的梦又在哪个角落里漂移呢？

梦里的母亲步履蹒跚，可不知为何，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)