Mother, How Are You Doing Up There In
Zion?
By Han Tian
The leaves were once again falling; autumn was once again with us. This
morning I had received a phone call from a friend inviting me to a small party
at her home, which I was delighted and happy to accept.
As soon as I stepped into my friend’s garden, my eyes were instantly
attracted by the geraniums and the chrysanthemums which were in full bloom. The
fragrance from these flowers filled the air and reminded me immediately of my
parent’s garden in the past. I felt a lump in my throat as the sorrows went
through my mind; my tears gathered and flowed down my face. The chrysanthemums
made me think of my mother who had passed away only last autumn. I looked up to
the sky because I knew she was now living in Zion, in the seventh heaven.
My mind floated back in memory. My mother had been a very hard working,
industrious and thrifty woman with strong Chinese traditional virtues. We were a
family of nine people-----a large one with my parents, grandpa and grandma and
us five children, three sons, two daughters. I was the youngest daughter born in
the 1960’s.
Those years were bad years with most Chinese families suffering from the
famine and other disasters. We as a family were one of those who experienced
those hard times. We barely existed on father’s meagre wages and mother’s
struggling income. Mother had a very hard job----dragging the river for sand
grain, which she sold to the boss of a building site. Mother shared a big family
burden with father trying to survive during those bad days.
I still have memories of mother getting up early in the morning before the
break of dawn, tiptoeing out of the house with her tools trying not to disturb
anybody. Although I was a little girl at the time, I understood in my mind that
mother was heading for the river, which was in the vicinity of our house. She
would stand in the river and scoop up scanty amounts of sand from the riverbed
and then carry the heavy wet sand to the bank with a basket on her back and
struggle by crawling towards on all fours. Her clothes would be dripping and
drenched with sweat and the water seeping through the basket. During winter,
whenever she came back home from the river, I would find her soaked through and
trembling with the cold chill penetrating her body. Mother would accumulate the
river sand into a large heap drying in the open and then riddle with a screen
before selling to the building boss. No matter how hard she worked, our family
could barely make ends meet.
I would always look forward to the day when mother would be selling the sand
each month because she would always bring us children dainty bits such as
konfyts, boiled peanuts, fried peas or broad beans from market after doing her
business with the boss man. These eating stuffs look common nowadays to boys and
girls, but for me during those bad times they were a big treat.
I remember sitting on the threshold at the gate, waiting for mother with my
brothers and sister. I would rest my head on my hands, keeping my eyes on the
road leading to the market. River sand holds a special token for me with both
sadness and happiness, which has made a deep impression on me from my childhood.
Mother worked hard, as did so many, during those years. She lived a spare
life-style, making many sacrifices and being rigorous with herself. She would
never spend one cent if she considered it unnecessary. I remember very clearly
during the year I started middle school, my farther brought home a fine piece of
costume material because he was concerned that mother always wore patched
clothes. Mother was unhappy with him for going to that expense and kept
complaining to him about being wasteful with the money. Many years later after
her death my sister and I were going through her belongings which she had kept
in a large wooden case. I was shocked to find that piece of costume material at
the bottom of the case being still intact. I held it in my hands and burst out
crying: “Mother, my dearest mother, I was only 13 when I started middle school
and now I’m 41 years old. It had been 28 years. Why did you always care for all
us children but never yourself?”
I was working at my office when my sister phoned 500 kilometres away from the
hospital to tell me that mother was seriously ill. I suddenly went dumb and
dizzy and felt as if the sky had fallen in on me. We spent some time talking
about mother and her condition, when I put the receiver down picking up my
belongings and decided to head for the bus station. I only had one desire that
was to see my mother in person as soon as possible.
I travelled all night and arrived at the hospital early in the morning. My
heart was pounding with fear and anxiety, and I raced to the ward where I knew
she was confined in. I rushed into the room and took a look at my sister’s face
and knew it was not good. Mother just laid there with her eyes closed. It was
clear this was her last day----her breathing was heavy and it was clear that she
was being tortured by the cancer. I was now out of control my tears were running
down like a rushing river. “Mama, Mama, please don’t leave us!” I murmured to
her.
My sister put her arms around me as I tried to arouse mama from her coma. Her
eyelids quivered slightly enough to tell me she had heard my voice her youngest
daughter. It was clear she had a deathbed wish to see me one more time. My
sister and I held each other with our heads on each other’s shoulders sobbing
out of control. We both knew she was now on the road to Zion and with all our
crying and the shedding of tears nothing could stop mama’s journey. That
happened one morning last winter when mother gave up her life and peacefully
went to sleep after many years of toiling never ever complaining, and always had
a smile----she would always say: “Tomorrow will be a better day”.
I smelt the fragrance of those flowers in my friend’s garden
and then my mother’s face appeared. Just like a burning candle,
mother always brightened those cold winter nights for us. We were five children she had
bred and worked so hard that all of us could graduate from universities and then saw us grow
up and flew away from the family nest to establish our own lives, leaving the
couple of decrepit swallows alone in the old nest. What hurtful to all five of
us was her passing away so early-----denying us the wish to be able to pay back
all those sacrifices she had made by allowing us to take care of her now that we
were so capable of doing. In the past, I was seldom back home to see and
accompany her, as I was busy with working. I thought I might have more chances to
stay with her someday in the future when I had holidays. However, I now realize
the chance to make up for that big loss has disappeared. It is too late to
retrieve anything. Whenever I think about it, I always condemn myself with shame
and regret!
It was the year when mother had taken her journey that the chrysanthemums in
our old garden, which she had planted herself, were in such luxuriant bloom. I
mixed the white petals with mother’s cremains and then walked over to the
mountain slope at the back of our garden then scattered them into the breeze. I
now know for sure that mother will hear our laughing and talking when we are
staying at home with father---she will smile and be happy that we care.
It will be Mid-Autumn Festival again tomorrow (15th day of the 8th lunar
month, one of the important Chinese traditional days for family members to
reunite). It will be the first Mid-Autumn Festival after mother left. I’m going
to see my father after the party and all my brothers and sister will be home
too. However, mother is now absent forever. When I’m thinking of her, I get
depressed and sorrowful with tears in my eyes.
The mum flowers in our old garden would be in full bloom again this autumn. I
quietly said to her in my mind: “Mother, can you smell the fragrance there from
beyond? Do you know how much I miss you? How are you doing up there in Zion?”
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