Drowning: Part 2, with mother

"Aiyah! The apartment smells like fermented tofu!" My mother entered the front door carrying bags of fresh groceries, packages of this week's medication, and a large green umbrella dripping with wet snow. I smiled weakly, watching fondly as my sole family survivor returned home. I never ceased wondering how a diminutive middle-aged Chinese woman speaking only broken English and with a bed-ridden son in tow, could physically bear the daily burden of living hand-to-mouth in a viciously cold and apathetic country. Always cleaning, cooking and tidying, the busy body moved continuously from here to there throughout our claustrophobic apartment in tireless fastidiousness. Maybe her secret was indeed to keep one occupied with endless tasks to repel the unavoidable attacks of existentialist thoughts and questions of meaning and eternity. Or maybe she was just a simple creature determined to live a content and simple life, whatever reality revealed otherwise.

"How was your day, mom?" As she entered and immediately started tidying up various items scattered across my room, she habitually talked about her house-cleaning work at the Hu's and her daily adventure to the Chinese market for ultra cheap vegetables and occasional roasted pork cutlets. I never responded much beyond the curt "uh", which seemed to be more than sufficient for her as she smiled and continued her narration. Perhaps in her companionship with her son, she thirsted not so much for lively conversations, but merely the acknowledged presence of one connected by common bloodline, potent enough as an impenetrable shield against loneliness in a foreign land. Or perhaps this was just how older Chinese generations had always talked to the younger ones, who seldom talked back anyway. After twenty two years, mother remained a fascinating and lovable conundrum to me.

"How do you feel today? What would you like for dinner, ah Simon? I've bought fresh bok choy from Uncle Ted this afternoon. Very fresh! Very fresh!" She sat on the side of my bed, held my left hand and began to feel my pulse. I loved her for saying phrases twice for emphasis. I loved her also for always inquiring what I prefered for supper, even though she had long ago decided what was deemed nutritious and subsequently bought the necessary ingredients already. "Very strong pulse! I know you are getting better. On your feet in no time! In no time!" As she asserted her approbation and marched definitively away to commence dinner preparation, I watched her slowly fading silhouette shape-shifting in silence; the setting sun casted her a long shadow in the pastal yellow hallway that lingered and refused to disappear completely until she finally entered the kitchen door. I returned to editing my Chinese romance novel that remained unpublishable after a full year. In Canada they did't let you die, but you had to figure yourself how to live. This was how mother and I lived -- deliberately and painstakingly, one day at a time.