Not even she herself knows how many children's mother she is. A heavy snowfall the other day took away her life as fragile as paper ash. Since then, she no longer has to wander on the streets in the cold wind and rain, no longer has to endure disdainful looks in the scorching heat, and no longer has to bear loneliness in the bustling city.
She was a mentally ill old beggar, about seventy years old, often dragging her disabled leg, staggering, rummaging through trash bins near my neighborhood with her hands as dry as branches, searching for food. Her face was etched with faint traces by frost, snow, and rain, like dirty ravines. Her gray hair, unwashed for a long time, had formed a thick layer of scabs. Regardless of the season, she always wore that tattered black cotton coat, which had exposed its cotton padding, with buttons undone, revealing her dry and baggy breasts that once nursed her children. Apart from looking for things to eat, she would lie down beside the garbage or in the grass, hugging a bundle of firewood tied with almost colorless white cloth. I have never seen her look at any passerby. Perhaps in her view, there was only her in this world, and most passersby also paid no attention to her.
My mother told me that when the old beggar was young, she was very beautiful, a well-educated young lady from a scholarly family, married to a local farmer’s son after working in his village. Two years after marriage, she gave birth to a dark and plump baby boy, bringing great joy to the family. However, good times didn't last long. Three years later, the "Cultural Revolution" began, and because of her poor family background, she was labeled as a "demon and snake spirit," suffering all kinds of torment. Soon, she became mentally unstable and was driven out of her home by her father-in-law. Despite her desperate cries, "I don't want to leave my baby, I don't want to abandon my baby..." and despite her attempts to break down the iron gate, she could not change her tragic fate of being deprived of her rights as a mother.
Perhaps it was the instinct to return home that led her to beg all the way back to her hometown. But her mother had already passed away before she returned. Alone and destitute, she eventually ended up on the streets.
I asked my mother why her biological son didn't come to find her. My mother sighed and said, "Her son is an important official in that village. Someone told him about his mother's current situation, but he replied that he had never enjoyed maternal love, and it was his grandmother who had worked hard to raise him. He considers his mother dead since many years ago."
So, year after year, the frail figure of the old beggar wandered around the county town. I occasionally showed some sympathy, leaving a few bags of bread or snacks near the trash bins she frequented, but more often than not, I simply ignored her presence. Yet, it was this old beggar who left an unforgettable impression on me, one that shook my soul.
One day, while returning home from work, I heard a child crying and calling for their mother from afar. There was a two or three-year-old girl walking and sobbing softly. It must be that the child had wandered out of the house unattended. I quickly pedaled my bike. At that moment, I suddenly noticed the old beggar putting down the firewood she usually carried, staggering towards the little girl from the opposite direction. Afraid that she might harm the child due to her unclear mental state, I hurried to intercept her. Unexpectedly, the moment I got off my bike, she darted forward and scooped the child into her arms, crouching down on the ground.
"Good child, good baby, don't cry..." Her eyes, usually clouded, suddenly shone with light. That light was enough to dispel the severe cold of winter, enough to melt the frozen charcoal frost, filled with a maternal glow that anyone could see. No wonder the tired child could lie safely in her arms and stop crying. She freed one hand, took off her only warm cotton coat, and covered the child's robust body with it. And she, exposing her upper body, her tense and rough skin like coarse bark, seemed to be peeled off layer by layer in the cold wind, yet her face radiated a smile of happiness and satisfaction. Then, she pressed her face against the child's rosy cheeks, slowly patting the child's back. After a while, she gazed intently at the child, warmth flowing from her sunken eye sockets. For a long time, her gaze wouldn't leave the child's face, afraid that the child would suddenly disappear from her sight. Her trembling hand reached out to gently caress the child's face, as if caressing a rare treasure. Her pale lips moved, murmuring something, as if praying or talking to the child. Then, she hugged the child tightly, closed her eyes, immersed in boundless happiness. Two warm tears flowed down her weathered face. Perhaps, that scene evoked her wonderful memories of being a mother decades ago; perhaps, that child reminded her of her own lost child; perhaps... perhaps there were so many "perhapses." But her love for the child was entirely innate, stemming from the potential love of a mother. Mothers are all the same, whether they are poor or rich, healthy or sick, happy or unfortunate, they all naturally exude maternal warmth and make others feel the flow of love.
"You, old beggar, release my child immediately!" A sharp female voice suddenly rang out, and then a young woman snatched the child from the old beggar's arms!
"Child, my child..." The old beggar's wailing echoed in the gray sky filled with falling leaves. Perhaps the scene of losing her child decades ago re-entered her numb memory. She staggered after them, crying and screaming, and fell on the icy road. After a long while, she stood up...
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