Son, how can you live? Mom and Dad ran everywhere to get a son, in the old days, I clearly remember, I lay for hours listening to my son’s breathing in my stomach, my hand constantly holding that stomach as if I was afraid that if I let go, I would fly away. And yet… I just sent you to my cousin for a little bit—a little bit, do you hear me? – it ended up in this field.
That day, the sun was pouring down fire. I asked to go out with the neighbors, I was busy eating, my father had to go to work early, my mother only had time to tell me to “go and remember to come home early” and then looked at me with a small backpack. I even saw you with your back turned and smiling, your smile was as bright as a flower. Who would have thought that was the last time I saw you laugh like that.
When the phone rang, Mom was washing dishes, her hands still stained with powder. My mother heard her cousin’s trembling voice: “Sister…”. From those two simple hours, it seemed like my whole life had collapsed. She stammered, told the story of her fall, told the story of everyone’s fear, told the part where her mother would never hear a word – only her heart was broken. Mom ran as if she had no soul. The long road with my mother seemed like a hundred years.
I still remember that scene: they put me on the stretcher, I was still lying there as if asleep, my hair was tangled, my little hands were still shaking, my eyes were still open but there was no light. I called my name, called out loud, called out loud, hoping I would open my eyes, that I would scream out loud so that I would know that it was just a bad dream. Nothing. Only the cold, the cold of an early morning smelled of antiseptic, and the sound of strangers’ footsteps weighed heavily on my mother’s heart.
People asked her if she needed someone to call, she just shook her head. I want to punch, I want to scream, I want to kneel, I want to hit my head against the wall so this heart wouldn’t hurt so much. I remember you when you were little and you hugged your mother to sleep, I remember you holding my mother’s hand when I was afraid of the dark, I remember you screaming when I fed you vegetables… Those pieces of memory keep falling like autumn leaves, no one can get them.
My cousin told me about the tail end — her words like knives that cut through the heart. She told me I ran after the elders; She told me she slipped; She said they tried to save her; She told me about her eyes when she saw her son still lying there; She was saying, she was saying… I couldn’t breathe when I heard it. My mother looked at her, but her eyes only saw a bottomless hole. I asked, why didn’t you hug me tighter? Why did you let me come with you? But what words are right? What words are enough for this loss?
They said, “accident”. I heard that word—the most lifeless word. Accident. It was as if there was a pre-recorded notebook, as if this loss had been sealed and passed on to my mother as an irretrievable item. I wanted to throw that notebook away, I wanted to tear it up, I wanted the sky to return me to me. But the sky was silent. They brought them home with a blanket wrapped tightly, as if the blanket could hide everything. I hugged you, you still felt warm – then you cooled down – and then you became a shadow.
Son, I know I’m selfish. I wanted to keep all the memorabilia: my hair still smelling of shampoo, the T-shirt I often wore with a few chips on it, the piece of paper I wrote on with the words “Mommy”. Mom didn’t dare let anyone touch it, afraid that if they touched it, it would melt. They say that time will be a mother. Whoever said that never stood and watched my hand sink into the ground, never heard the sound of the hammer closing the coffin lid.
He heard everyone around him whispering: “Did someone neglect me?”, “Why did you leave the children without their parents?”, “Do you need to file a lawsuit?” He shouted: Don’t talk anymore! Those words didn’t revive me. I only wanted one thing—to hear you call me “mother” again.
The night I left, Mother lay on my pillow and cried in the dark. I blamed myself, I blamed myself, then I blamed my cousin, and then I blamed myself for letting me out the door. I thought: if I had forbidden you to stay at home that day, if I hadn’t abandoned you, would you still be here? Sentences if you keep clinging to your mother like a cold snake.
Son, I know that your words are hanging now, I know that there are no words heavy enough to express this pain. All I know is how to call your name, every day, like calling a love that has died. How can I live if every corner of the house has a picture of me, while the sound of my footsteps no longer echoes on the stairs? How can you live if the rice cooker is still hot and the dining table is always empty?
And, I swear to you that it is worth the price :). I will carry you with every breath, with every word I say, so that everyone who visits me knows that there is a daughter who made me laugh so much. And when I close my eyes, I hope to see you in a place where there is no more pain, where you can run and jump again, where I can hold you without fear of losing it.
Daughter… I don’t know how to live anymore, but I still have to live—for you, for the word I promised you when you were born: I will love you until the end.