Holding Mother’s Hand
Overjoyed with our returning home on Saturday, Mother insisted making a big dinner for us. My wife and I tried to persuade her from taking so much trouble, as she was already of age, but in vain. Mother said it was of no trouble, but a pleasure to her. Nothing could stop her willing heart, so I told her I would like to walk with her. “Alright, alright, go with me. I shall buy whatever u like.” Mother was more than pleased.
Mother kept talking to me about the household trifling, while walking slowly to the market, basket in hand. Old trees roots more, old people talks more. At such an age, it’s natural mother liked nagging on and on, to which, we, as her children, should show our interest at any time, although for most of the time, we just pretended to.
At the other side of the road was the market. Mother suddenly come to a stop, carried the basket on her arm, and reached her right hand to me. For that instant, my heart was shaken. How familiar this action was! During my primary years, I had to cross the road every day on my way to the school. And mother always walked me all the way, and then hurried to work. Every time she would reach out her right hand, hold my little hand into her palm, pulled me across the road, and then bent down and warned me once and again, “Don’t ever try to cross the road in case of buses, remember to walked with others when crossing the road.”
Twenty years passed, the little hand had now become manful big hands, while the tender hands of my mother’s in her youth now had turned into coarse dried ones, the only thing unchanged was her action to pull my hand. Mother went through and endure all kinds of hardship, which were all swept away without complain, without hatred, the only thing never swept away was her love for her children. But her son’s feeling for her was fading out day by day. It was only for the sake of “responsibility”, and to avoid from the reproach of ingratitude that her son felt the necessity to visit her, once every month, without sincerity, but out of selfishness.
I didn’t give out my hand to my mother, but reached out my hand, took the basket from Mother’s arm and carried it in my hand, while the other hand held my mother’s. “Mum, you used to walk me across the road when I was young. It is my turn today.” Pleasant surprise flickered in mother’s eyes, smiles danced on her face. “Mum, Be aware of buses when you cross the road. Buses are always rushing blind.”, I added.
There is an ending paragraph for this article, but I deleted it intentionally, as I am convinced that you, the readers, know clearly the point of this article.
