My mother has really grown old, becoming as clingy as a child. Every time she calls, she always asks enthusiastically: "When are you coming home?" Let's not even mention the more than a thousand miles of road and three transfers it would take; just work and taking care of my children have me stretched too thin to find time to go home. My mother’s hearing isn't good, and after I explained for a long time, she still eagerly asked: "When can you come back?" After several rounds of this, I finally lost my patience and shouted loudly on the phone. She finally understood, and silently hung up.
A few days later, my mother asked the same question again, but her tone was timid, lacking confidence. Like a child who knows asking is futile but can't help it anyway. My heart softened, and I hesitated for a moment.
Seeing that I wasn't annoyed, my mother immediately became happy. She excitedly told me: "The pomegranates in the backyard have blossomed, and the watermelons will be ripe soon. Come back!" I said helplessly: "I'm so busy, how can I possibly ask for leave?" She quickly said: "Just say mom has cancer, and only six months left to live!" I immediately scolded her for making things up, and she chuckled. When I was little, every time it was windy or rainy, and I didn’t want to go to school, I'd pretend to have a stomachache, but my mother would see through it, and I’d get a good scolding. Now that she's old, she's teaching me to lie instead, which makes me both angry and amused.
This kind of questioning kept repeating itself, and I finally couldn't bear it anymore. I told her I would definitely go home next month, and she was so happy she choked up with emotion.
But somehow, there were always things to do, each one seemingly more important than going home, and in the end, I never went back. The mother on the other end of the phone seemed to have no strength to say another word. I felt full of guilt: "Mom, are you mad at me?" This time, my mother heard clearly. She hurriedly said: "Child, I'm not mad at you, I know you're busy." But a few days later, my mother's phone calls became more urgent. She said, "The grapes are ripe, the pears are ripe, come back and eat them." I said, "What's so special? They're all over here, you can buy enough for ten to twenty yuan." Mother became unhappy, and I had to patiently coax her: "However, those are all grown with fertilizers and pesticides, they're not as good as what you grow." Mother smiled smugly.
On Saturday, it was particularly hot, and I didn't dare to go out, so I stayed at home with the air conditioner on. The kids cried out that the popsicles were gone, so I had to go downstairs to buy some. On the sweltering street, I suddenly saw my mother's figure. It looked like she had just got off the bus, carrying a basket on her arm and a heavy bag on her back. She bent over, dodging left and right, afraid someone might bump into her stuff. In the crowded crowd, every step was difficult for my mother. I called her loudly, and she quickly lifted her sweat-covered face, looking around until she saw me coming, and was so surprised she couldn't speak.
As soon as we got home, my mother happily started bringing out all the things she had brought. Her hands were covered with veins, and all ten fingers were wrapped with band-aids. There were scabbed wounds on the backs of her hands. Laughing, she said to me: "Eat, hurry up and eat, these are all ones I carefully picked out for you." My mother, who had never traveled far, came all this way just because of one word from me. She took the cheapest bus without air conditioning, where it was hot and crowded, but the plump grapes and pears were perfectly intact. I couldn't imagine how she endured the journey, but I knew that wherever there is a mother, there are miracles. My mother only stayed for three days. She said I worked too hard, getting up early and working late, while also taking care of the children. She could only watch helplessly, unable to assist.
She didn't dare touch any kitchen facilities, fearing she might break something. She secretly booked her ticket and quietly left alone. Just a week after she returned, my mother said she missed me and kept urging me to come home. I laughed bitterly: "Mom, please be patient!"
The next day, I received a call from Auntie: "Your mom is sick, come back quick!" I was so anxious that my vision went black, and I tearfully rushed to the station, catching the last bus. All along the way, I prayed silently.
I hoped this was my mother deceiving me, I hoped she was fine. I was willing to listen to her nagging, willing to finish all the food she made for me, willing to visit her whenever I had free time.
It was only then that I realized, even at eighty years old, one still needs their mother. Finally, the bus arrived at the village entrance, and my mother came running over, her face full of smiles. I hugged her, wanting to cry and laugh at the same time, reproaching her: "Why don't you say something good, why say you're sick, how could you think of such a thing!"
After being scolded, my mother remained infinitely delighted; she just wanted to see me.
My mother cheerfully bustled about, setting a table full of delicious dishes, waiting for my praise. Without mercy, I criticized: "The red bean porridge is burnt; the steamed bun's skin is too thick; the braised meat is too salty." My mother's smile immediately turned awkward, and she helplessly scratched her head. I secretly laughed inside, knowing that once I said something tasted good, she would force me to eat a lot, and when I left, she'd make sure I took some with me. That's how I ended up being fed so fat that I couldn't lose weight. And if I didn't criticize her, how would I ever get the chance to take over the stove?
I cooked for my mother, chatted with her, and my mother stared at me for a long time, her eyes filled with boundless affection.
No matter what I said, she devoutly half-opened her mouth, tilted her ear, and listened intently. Even during her nap, she sat by the bed, smiling at me. I said: "If you love me so much, why don't you move in with me?" She said she wasn't used to city life. After just a few days, I was eager to go back, and my mother begged me to stay one more day. She said that morning she had already sent someone to the city to buy vegetables, and they would surely return soon. She insisted on cooking me a good meal. The county town was more than ninety miles away, and my mother was determined to bring back everything she thought was delicious, so I could eat it, giving her peace of mind.
When I returned from Auntie's house, the dishes my mother had carefully prepared were finally served, and I couldn't help but be astonished: the fish scales weren't cleaned properly, there were tiny chicken feathers on the chicken pieces, and there were hair strands in the fragrant oil mushrooms. Whether it was meat or vegetables, none of it was edible. My mother used to be so clean, but now that she was old, she had become so messy. Seeing me pick at the food without eating, she pitifully gave in, and escorted me to the night bus. It was very dark, and my mother held my arm. She said, "You're not used to walking on country roads." She accompanied me onto the bus, repeatedly warning me about this and that. The bus started moving, and she hastily got down, her clothes caught in the door, nearly falling. I choked up, shouting through the window: "Mom, Mom, be careful!" She didn't hear clearly, chasing after the bus while shouting: "Child, I'm not mad at you, I know you're busy!"
This time, it seemed my mother was satisfied, and she never urged me to come home again. Instead, she constantly told me happy news: a cute little calf had been added to the family; next spring, she planned to plant many flowers in the yard. Listening to her, my heart warmed.
By the end of the year, I received another call from Auntie. She said: "Your mom is sick, come back quickly!" How could I believe it? We had just talked the other day, and she said she was fine and told me not to worry. Auntie kept urging me, and though I was skeptical, I still went back, buying a big bag of the fried cakes my mother loved. When the car reached the village entrance, I craned my neck looking around, and my mother didn't come to meet me. My heart trembled with an ominous premonition.
Auntie told me, when she called me, my mother was already gone, and she passed away peacefully. Six months ago, my mother had been diagnosed with cancer, but she hadn't told anyone, continuing to be cheerful until she closed her eyes. She had already arranged all her posthumous affairs. Auntie also told me that my mother had suffered from eye problems for a long time, and it was very difficult for her to see. I tightly hugged the bag of fried cakes to my chest, feeling as if someone had torn out my heart. Originally, my mother knew she didn't have much time left, so she kept calling me to come home, wanting to see me a few more times, wanting to talk to me a bit longer.
Originally... the meals I was picky about and refused to eat were made by her under blurred vision. I was so careless! That night I left, how did she manage to grope her way home alone? Did she fall? I would never know. Mother, in the final moments of your life, you joyfully told me that morning glories had covered the old chimney, and the hyacinth beans bloomed like the purple dresses I wore when I was a child. You left behind all your love, all your warmth, and then quietly departed.