Ice Peak Prose: Mother's Day, I Remember Mom Again
By Bing Feng
Pushing Mom's wheelchair
Another holiday.
I push my mother's wheelchair through the living room, walking along a path in life. My mother sits in the wheelchair, its two wheels turning quietly, time spinning away behind us. I want to say some heartfelt words to her, but she answers without understanding. My mother speaks of what she wants to say, from a long time ago to a long time ago, and I don't understand a word. I remember when my mother was young, diligent, nimble, and tireless... but now she is old, sick, and has no strength. She leans against the wheelchair, like a leaning tree, standing in the wilderness of life.
My mother sat in her wheelchair, and I stopped in my tracks. Looking at her stiff expression and vacant gaze, it was as if she could see our old house back home, the wind blowing, the house swaying in the rain. I asked myself, if my mother were gone, would my “old home” still be there... It's been over nine years. First, my mother walked with a cane, and then she started using a wheelchair. The wheels spun, round and round, as if they were carrying everyone alive to another world. My mother was not afraid, nor did she cry, because she could no longer cry. My sister, brother-in-law, brother, and sister-in-law have all been supporting her, like people straining with all their might to prop up a tree about to fall. They were panting, their bodies already bent over. I stood in Beijing, unable to get close to the tree, only able to watch my mother from afar. And on the 10th of every month, I send her some money for living expenses and medical care. To keep this great tree, my mother, from falling, her children have been exhausting their energy day and night.
I pushed my mother's wheelchair, walking with heavy steps. My mother was occasionally awakened by her body's pain, groaning with suffering, like tragic music echoing from the room. The sound of my mother's groans tore at my heart... My mother rarely goes out anymore. When she does go out, she can only sit in the car, wrapped in thick clothing. Because my mother is afraid of the wind; the wind can damage her skin and cause her more pain. My mother has been lying on the hospital bed in the bedroom. When she's restless, my sister, brother-in-law, brother, sister-in-law, and caregiver have to laboriously lift her onto the wheelchair, and then push her into the living room. What follows is the rotation of the wheels, turning round and round like a clock... My hands gripped the handles of the wheelchair, rhythmically lifting my left leg, then my right leg, and walking forward. My mother's head full of white hair and her tilted body swayed in my line of sight. Suddenly, two words surfaced in my mind: prison, torture.
Pushing my mother's wheelchair, I looked at her tilted back, and my body temperature suddenly began to drop... I thought of my father, I thought of the moment before my father's death... My father was a man who loved to drink; it seemed like he never left alcohol his whole life. On November 13, 2010, my father fell after drinking and broke his ribs. Two days later, my father was admitted to the hospital. This was the first time he had ever entered a hospital room in his life, and of course, it was also the last. My father was very quiet. After receiving an IV drip in the hospital, he passed away peacefully. The process of him saying goodbye to this world took less than two minutes. It was simple, quick, painless, there was no time for resuscitation, it didn't trouble his children, and he didn't suffer at all... Thinking about this, I seemed to fear thinking further. Otherwise, it would seem as though I was glad my father had died, as if I were saying my father's death was a good thing, something that made his children happy. I know that this kind of thought is wicked, an unforgivable sin.
Pushing my mother's wheelchair, allowing time to turn backward, circle after circle. My mother's moans of pain would come, like a cleaver flying up, piece by piece, stabbing into my body... My vacation ended, but my mother's physical pain did not. How I wish my mother was like she used to be, holding the hands of us three siblings, humming old songs, walking, running, throwing happiness to the sky, and leaving time behind, bit by bit...
Suddenly, Mom seemed to stand up from her wheelchair, and she had returned to her youthful years.
My mom is nowhere to be found in this world anymore.
Mom passed away, she left the mortal world on a wisp of smoke. When she left, I was standing at the entrance of the funeral home, gazing at the clouds drifting in the sky. The clouds were black, and Mom's soul stood upon them, waving goodbye with reluctance. I knew that from this moment on, my mom would no longer be in this world.
I've said goodbye to my mom countless times, but each of those goodbyes was because I was running away from home. The one I remember most vividly is the first goodbye when I started high school. Mom once told me that it was raining lightly the day I left, and as she watched my retreating back, tears welled up in her eyes. Back then, I didn't understand why she told me this story, and her eyes would always get teary when she recounted it. Today, I understand. That was the first heartbreak she experienced. Gradually, Mom got used to me running away from home, and our goodbyes became less tearful. I went away to college, I went away for work… I said goodbye to Mom countless times, and all that was left were her warm reminders: "Eat more," "Be careful," "Don't get too tired…"
And this time, it wasn't me running away from home, but my mother leaving me. On the morning of February 25, 2022, my mother lay on a bed covered in flowers, her body cold, her eyes slightly closed, as if adrift in a deep, deep dream. Her expression was serene, her face frozen, like a statue, motionless. I wanted to talk to my mother, but she could no longer hear my voice.
I remember that day, my younger brother, brother-in-law, and I pushed Mom's cold body down the corridor of the funeral home. What was behind us became a blurry reel of film. For many days after, I couldn't recall how we walked that path, as if my whole body was empty, with only an illusion drifting in my mind.
The funeral home's corridor wasn't actually long, only a few dozen meters. Yet, on the journey of my life, this stretch felt exceptionally long... because Mom was leaving me. She was going somewhere very, very far away, with no return. In the quiet corridor, I looked at Mom's stiff body, and a scene surfaced in my mind... Fifty-six years ago, Mom lay in bed, and with a loud cry, I came out of her body. In the years that followed, Mom nurtured me, helping me grow little by little, from babbling to the appearance of white hairs at my temples...
In the corridor of the funeral home, I saw the footsteps of time retreat, and space and time became disordered. My young mother held my hand as we walked by the small river at the entrance of the village. Wisps of cooking smoke curled upwards, and the whole world became clear and bright. Under the azure sky, lush, growing crops covered my entire field of vision. Only a lazy cow and a few foraging sparrows walked along the path in the fields... Behind the cow and the sparrows, my hand was tightly held by my mother's. The cow's receding figure swayed and gradually disappeared from my sight... In a daze, a wisp of smog drifted through the serene scene. The weather gradually turned cooler, and a cold wind blew, painting the fields with dim colors. My mother fell ill, her body becoming weak and soft.
Later, Mom lost her strength, and time burned to ashes... In the darkness, my hand slipped from Mom's hand. I cried out, ran frantically, trying to find Mom's hand, Mom's warmth.
In the hallway of the funeral home, I was weeping softly, but my voice had become hoarse, without its former innocence. I pulled back the sheet and grasped my mother's hand with trembling fingers. Instantly, icy blood rushed through my body; my mother's warmth was gone. I knew that after today, this hand that had caressed me as I grew would no longer be able to convey a mother's love, as gentle as cotton and linen.
In the hallway of the funeral home, Mom's body was still, the pain gone from her. Mom's relaxed expression revealed a peaceful look. Because the funeral home staff had applied makeup to Mom, the remnants of her illness were cleaned away. Mom's healthy appearance was restored, the pain on her face had withered, revealing a rosy glow.
Seeing my mother's kind expression, a nameless sadness suddenly washed over me. Mom is old, and she's gone. Who will be the next to leave this world? In front of my mother, I was always a child. Because in the family line, with Mom in front of me, I feared nothing. But now, Mom is gone, drifting to another world... The Mom who walked ahead is no longer there. I'm standing at the edge of a cliff.
Yes, life is a cycle, and who can escape aging and death? Since my parents, who walked ahead of me, are no longer here, and my children are following behind, their footsteps are constantly closing in on me. What choice do I have but to slow my pace and gradually approach the cliff?
In the dim light, my gaze lingered on my mother's face. I studied it closely, trying to see something... Faintly, it seemed I saw myself lying on the bed, not my mother. My children were beside me, their eyes streaming with a blood-like pain. The whole world was collapsing, and only I lay there quietly, thinking about things from a long, long time ago...
It felt like a long time had passed before we arrived at the crematorium furnace. I knew that my mother's physical body would turn into a wisp of smoke and a small pile of white bones here, and from this moment on, my mother's physical body would disappear from this world forever.
At this moment, my mother's face was serene, as if she had been waiting for this day of nirvana all along… The instant we pushed my mother into the cremation furnace, I felt as though a raging fire ignited within my own body, my youth and innocence being burned to ashes… In that moment, my youth was gone. Standing beside my mother's ashes, much of the sharp spirit and backbone within me vanished, and my face aged considerably.
I know Mom has forever and always left me, and left her children... But I don't know where Mom will go after she leaves us. Is the place she's gone to warm, with family love and children who miss her. I can't imagine, because the place Mom has gone to is truly too far away, a space that humans cannot currently enter. In Mom's universe, human souls and dreams have become a string of data... This feeling has given me a new understanding of life. Generations line up, slowly walking into the distance, into another unseen world... I think that distant world must exist, because Mom is still alive, watching her children slowly grow up and slowly grow old, smiling in another world.
It was already noon. I saw the clouds above the funeral home drift away, and the sunlight was tearing through the sorrow within me. I stood at the funeral home's entrance, waved goodbye to my younger self. I knew, from this moment on, my youth had left with my mother's body, and I would never find my mother in this world again.
Author Biography
Bing Feng, male, real name Zhao Zhi. He has worked at units such as People's Literature Magazine Agency. He is currently the Editor-in-Chief of Writers“ Network, President of the Beijing Microfilm Industry Association, and Vice President of the World Chinese Microfiction Research Association, among other positions. His works have appeared in various publications including ”People's Literature,“ ”People's Daily," "Poetry Journal," "Ci Kan," "Chinese Writers," "October," and "Essays." His essay "Types and Functions of Mouths" was included in "College Chinese" (March 2008, Beijing Normal University Press edition). He has won awards such as "Top Ten Producers" and "Outstanding Screenwriter" from the China Television Artists Association. In 2014, he received an honorary doctorate from the World Academy of Culture and Arts in the United States (awarded in Peru).
