The humid, weepy summer was unbearably hot—airless and stifling., The sky was choked up with tears from day to day, to crying its heart out. Drizzle and drizzle–all of the time.
“The roots are rotting in the soil from this heat and humidity,” remarked mother, observing the yellowing grass. “Soon the sky will spill its pain over the earth. Why’s the sky so overcome that it can’t stop weeping? Next thing you know the potatoes will start rotting, too.”
The moment we went in it started pouring again.
“Don’t ask me, it’s your sky, you should know what’s wrong with it,” I said taking a swig of water from the paunchy carafe on the table. “I’m tired. That’s it, I’m going to sleep.”
The shelter, dug into the ground, was dark, and the air inside was warm and a little musty. It left a bitter aftertaste in your mouth and constricted your chest. But the shelter was the only safe place in the entire village, and I happily stretched out on the cot, which smelled of dampness. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I fell asleep.
My mother’s coarse, uneven breathing woke me up at night. When I called out to her, she groaned, “I’m dying.”
“Wishful thinking,” I said in the sternest tone I could muster. “Dying’s easy, living is the tough part….”
That morning, we bid farewell to the last group of the wounded. My mother’s own wound was very small, so insignificant, in fact, that it appeared to have been a mere scratch, and mother wouldn’t allow me bandage it. “Why waste the bandages,” she said then, “save them, we may need them later.” And here she was now, moaning, “I’m dying.”
I didn’t believe her, so I turned over and wrapped myself tightly in the blanket.
“We shouldn’t have stayed,” mother said with self-deprecation. “That good-hearted driver insisted a thousand times, ‘Get in the truck, come with us, there’s nothing here worth staying for.’ I’m like a predator. I get so attached to one place that I can’t part from it. And how are you going to fend for yourself without me?” she asked, as if chiding herself for maternal neglect.
“Cut it out,” I muttered, annoyed. “As if this darkness isn’t bad enough–and now you with all this silly talk.”
“Please be sure to cry over my body,” suddenly asked my mother.
“Whatever….”
“What, you can’t spare some salty water for your own mother?” she flared up.
“No, I can’t. If I cry, the water will eventually dry up but the salt will crystallize and cover my soul like frost. I will dry up and crack, just like a salt-marsh.”
“This isn’t the time for idle talk,” she said didactically. “You are my sole heir. It’s your duty to mourn my death.”
“Honestly, I have other things to worry about at the moment. Why don’t you let me get some sleep. There’s so much to do in the morning. We’ve got to go door-to-door, check every house. What if some frightened child has been left behind in one of the houses or people have abandoned dead bodies and such?”
“But I’ll be more than just some dead body to you. I’ve lived a decent live and fully deserve to have my passing mourned by my heir,” she kept insisting in a calm tone.
Annoyed, I finally sat up, pulling the thin, moldy blanket around me, “I’m so hungry right now that if you give me something to eat I promise I won’t just cry over you, I’ll tear my hair out in grief.”
“Well, there’re beets under the cupboards, and ….” But I didn’t let her finish.
“Do you think you’re feeding the pigs? Beets!” I screamed, livid. “How about something sweet that you’ve stashed up?”
“Nothing.”
“As if I don’t know you! I am sure you’ve put something away. Think carefully!” I wouldn’t let it go. “From what you used to give to the wounded? I want something sweet!”
“How about something stronger?” Though her voice was weakened, she tried to chide me. “I’m dying here, and you’re pestering me for something sweet.”
“So?”
“Can’t you get it into your head that I’m dying?”
“What do you want me to do about it?” I started toying with her. “It so happens that I’m not a priest, so I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait.”
“One has to live a godly life to die with a priest.”
“And what, pray tell, was so ungodly about your life?” I thought to reassure her. “You never stole, never whored around. What sins have you committed?”
“You are my sin,” she said dejectedly.
We both fell silent for a while. I thought she’d fallen asleep—her breathing had grown more even. It was dark. I had no idea what time it was. I curled up next to my mother, pressed my feet against hers, and felt how cold they were.
“I’m dying,” she whispered again.
“Maybe, you’re right,” I said., “Your feel are ice-cold, like a dead person’s.”
“And I can’t breathe,” she added with a choking sound, like letting out a sob after crying for a long time.
“Are you sure this is how one dies?”
“How should I know? This is the first time I’m dying.”
“I’ve seen many things but never seen a corpse crack jokes,” I chuckled. “Nothing’s going to happen to you— but you’re going to drive me nuts.”
“In any case, please make sure you cry over me,” my mother started again.
“Oh! I can only imagine what an unbearable child you were,” I sighed in mock-desperation.
“I was a wonderful child,” my mother said with emotion. “But promise me you’ll cry over me.”
“Oh, I’m getting sick and tired of this.” I was almost yelling at this point. “I’ll cry, I promise. And you think that tears are an expression of grief? People cry for many reasons – pain, joy, love, hate, helplessness, happiness, unhappiness.”
“And you, what do you cry over?” she exploded.
“Nothing,” I cut in, cold and dry, “my soul has gone numb. Once you’ve seen war, nothing can make you cry. Have you seen how they drive needles under the nails of crazy people to awaken a feeling of pain in them? Right now, I doubt I’d cry if I was being crucified.”
“Oh, dear Lord,” my mother started wailing. “What is this generation you’ve raised? I became very soft-hearted the day my mother died. My soul softened, and I cried. And there were so many funereal wreaths there….We couldn’t make room for all of them in the house, and I started placing them by wall outside. I sobbed the whole time. And people just kept coming and coming….My mother died and suddenly everyone noticed her existence…. I am an Armenian, I can’t hide my emotions, least of all my grief. I wept loudly, and other women joined in. We cried in a chorus, and my grief was transformed into a song of lamentation….”
“I don’t know where you’re going with your story, but don’t count on my following your example. I can’t even carry a tune.”
“You don’t have to be a nightingale to express your grief. A human voice will do just fine.”
“Don’t try to change my mind. I freeze over when I’m grieving–I lose my ability to talk, let alone sing….”
“So you won’t put your grief for me into a song?” my mother asked, palpably disappointed.
“Not a chance.”
“What’s my life worth then?” she sobbed.
“Mom, I think you’re messing with my head,” I yawned.
“Well, you’ll only have to tolerate me for a little bit longer,” she said, clearly offended. “You’ll see, Archangel Gabriel will come for me soon.” She cleared her throat, barely holding back tears.
“Mom, has he promised you that he’s definitely coming?” I interrupted her, laughing.
“No,” she stopped. My question had startled her.
“If he hasn’t promised, why are you setting your sights on strange men?” I joked.
“Shame on you!” she burst out laughing. “Why are you in such a playful mood all of a sudden?”
“What else is there for me to do?”
“What do you mean, what else? Your mother’s dying.”
“She’s not dead yet.”
“You can mock the Archangel and me all you want. When your time comes, you’ll follow him, meek as a puppy.”
“Well, there must be something special about him if everyone follows him so complacently.”
“How can I abandon her alone with this half-baked brain of hers?” my mother worried.
“How about we make it through the night and then we worry about it, ok?” I implored her.
“That’s not in my hands, is it?”
Later that night, mother became delirious. She would periodically regain consciousness and start instructing me on how I should bury her—with everything properly done, in an expensive coffin with silk and velvet, with weeping relatives and unshaven men, with tables packed with abundant food but no sweets, with tears and wails, with an exaggerated account of her sufferings on earth, befitting the mournful occasion.
Mother died that night. I buried her by myself, first wrapping her in a rug eaten through with dampness. I loaded her body on a cracked, weathered cart, dragging it myself, since we’d eaten what was left of the cattle over the winter. The cart squeaked the entire way, and the shovel made hollow pangs as it knocked against the sides.
Luckily, the day was sunny and warm. I was sweating from dragging the heavy cart, my neck hurt from the tremendous effort, and my muscles tightened and felt sore…. A cliff had disintegrated into blasted rubble, blanketing the floor of the gorge with detritus. The unevenness chafed my feet. My heart ached but there were no tears.
By the time I got to the cemetery, the sun had begun to set. It was still light out, and yet I had no tears. Leaning against the side of the cart, I pondered where to dig mother’s grave – next to my father, my grandmother, or in a new spot, so that I could secure some space for myself next to it. I felt sorry for my mother. The beautiful death she had envisioned didn’t materialize….
Translated by Margarit Tadevosyan-Ordukhanyan
