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。