Chapter 28 last visit

My mother and I came to a small town that I had never visited.It looks ordinary, with a gas station on one corner and a small convenience store on the other.The poles and bark are the color of the carton.Most of the trees are bare and have lost all their leaves. We parked in front of a pale yellow two-story brick house. Where are we?I said. Mother looked at the horizon.The sun is setting. You should have eaten more for dinner just now.she says. I rolled my eyes.Say no more. Why?I like knowing you're full and that's all.You have to take care of yourself, Charlie. In her expression, I saw that ancient and solid concern.I've learned that when you gaze at your mother, you gaze at the purest love you've ever seen in the world.

I wish we used to be like this, Mom, you know? You mean before I die? My voice becomes wimpy: yes. I was there at that time. I know. And you are busy. The word busy makes me shudder.It sounds very hollow.I saw a look of resignation flow across her face like waves.For a split second, I believe she and I were thinking the same thing: how different things would be if we could do it all over again. Charlie, she asked: Am I a good mother? I opened my mouth to answer, but a blinding flash of light erased her like an eraser.I could feel the heat on my face, as if being baked by the sun.The rumbling voice spoke again:

Charles.Bernato.open your eyes! I blink hard.Suddenly, I was behind my mother again, but several blocks away from her.It was as if she kept going and I stopped.I blinked again.She was ahead, going further.I can hardly see her anymore.I stretched my body forward, stretched out my fingers hard, and the shoulder sockets desperately pushed my shoulders forward.Everything is spinning.I feel myself trying to call her name, the words vibrate in my throat.I yelled out with all my might. At this time, she was next to me again.She held my hand, very calmly, as if nothing had happened.We slide back to where we were.

There is one more place to go.She said it again. She led me towards a pale yellow building; in an instant we were in a house.The apartment has low ceilings and is fully furnished and decorated.The bedrooms are small.The wallpaper is an avocado-like rich green.A painting of a vineyard scene hangs on the wall, and a crucifix hangs over the bed.In the corner is a champagne-colored wooden dressing table with a large mirror hanging in front of it.In front of the mirror sat a dark-haired woman in a pink grapefruit-colored bathrobe. She looked to be in her seventies, with a long, narrow nose, high cheekbones, and sagging olive skin.She casually combed her hair slowly with a comb, her eyes on the dressing table.

Mother came up behind her without saying hello.She just held out her hand.Her hand merged into the woman's hand, holding the comb in one hand, while the palm of the other hand moved up and down with the brushing action. The woman looked up, as if examining herself reflected in a mirror, but her eyes were clouded and distant.I think she is looking at my mother. Neither of them spoke. Mom, I finally whispered: who is she? The mother turned away, her hands still in the woman's hair. She is your father's wife. ◆◆◆ When I didn't stand up for my mother Take the shovel, the priest said.He said it with his eyes.I'm going to shovel up a little dirt next and sprinkle it over my mother's coffin.The coffin was already half buried in the tomb.Meishi explained that my mother had seen this custom in Jewish funerals, so she asked her own funeral to do the same.This, she felt, would allow the living to come to terms with the fact that the deceased was gone and that it was their spirit that they should remember afterward.I can imagine how my father would reprimand her: Percy, you deserve to be scolded, you made this up.

I picked up the shovel like a child gets a rifle.The face of the younger sister Roberta was covered with a black veil.I saw her trembling.My wife stared at her feet, and I saw tears running down her cheeks as she stroked her daughter's hair with her right hand, as if there was a rhythm over and over again.Only Maria looked at me.Her eyes seemed to say don't do it, Dad.Put the shovel back. In baseball, players can tell whether they are holding their own bat or someone else's.I had a similar reaction to this shovel in my hand.This shovel belongs to someone else.It doesn't belong to me.It should be given to a son who has not lied to his mother.It should be held by a son who didn't get angry when he spoke to his mother for the last time.The son who owns this shovel will not rush forward to satisfy the sudden whim of the father who has been estranged for many years. However, this father keeps the record and is still absent on family occasions such as funerals because he I think: It's better if I'm not there, I don't want to make anyone unhappy.

The son, who would stay that weekend, would sleep in the guest room with his wife and eat a late breakfast at the family table.When the mother's body collapsed to the ground, the son would be by her side.The son might save his mother's life. However, the son was not there. The son swallowed a mouthful of saliva, and acted according to what others said.He scooped up the dirt with a shovel and sprinkled the coffin.The soil was scattered, and a few gravels fell onto the painted coffin, making rustling noises.Even though it was my mother's idea, I still heard my mother's voice say, Oh, Charlie, how could you do this?