Following the Death of my Father

Water fell down from the copper pot my mother’s hands grasped onto. She cradled it as if her sorrows were infused with the water. I could picture my own smoothing her wrinkled skin and holding them against my chest. Feel my heartbeat, mother. I am alive.

Her first fear came true after the death of her sister. She cried while father and I went to work. She cried when she made dinner, sniffing in between the sizzling, filling our plates, and leaving hers empty. Later, she said she grieved the loss of woman company more so than her sister.

“Left with my child,” she said. “I knew you as a boy. Then, you became your father’s son. Who are you now?”

Her hands were tough, but they lacked the signs of a fishermen. There were dark sunspots, tiny moles, thin string-like scars, but nothing indicated she could hook a line. Her wrists were so thin, so unlike the rest of her body. Was she carrying all the weight of her on her wrists? When had they become so withered?

“I’ll cook dinner. You must eat. Tomorrow, go to the priest. Make the offerings.”

She let go of my hand and kneeled down to the stove, brushing away the dust from the base with a broom and setting fire to the dung cakes. She blew through the metal pipe, fanning the flames until smoke flew back into her face. Then she began to cry while she cooked me dinner.

“Mama,” I said.

“Sit, eat. You’ll be out late tomorrow.”

“Mama.”

“What are you standing there for?”

I sat down on the seat next to her and ate. She covered her mouth with her scarf, eyes looking towards the empty seat and crying.

“It’s good, thank you,” I said once I was done.

“You know where the priest is?”

“Yes.”

“Good. He made a smart one out of you. I don’t remember the directions now. Good. Otherwise, we would starve.”

The next day, I went fishing and when I was done, I stayed in the boat. The water rocked me back and forth, as if I was being cradled to sleep. A lullaby played in my head. I heard the voice so clear; it was as if it was right next to me where it usually was. It was what I was familiar with. It was there even when he was sick, or even when his sister got married. I went to the wedding, but it stayed there. Now it was singing me to sleep.

The more you tense up, the more they are scared. They won’t come your way. Say, come here. Call them and they will. Come here, come here, repeat that in your mind. come here, come here.

The lullaby matched the gentle swing of the water. The sun turned into moon and the cold hurt my chest, so I went home.

“Did you go to the priest?”

I ate my food. She did not.

“Go tomorrow.”

“I have a lot to catch tomorrow. The market will open,” I said.

“Go to the priest. He will tell you what to do.”

“Mama.”

“Don’t bother me. Why don’t you do as I say? I told you so many times. You know this is important. Why were you out so late then? If you don’t go to the priest, it will be too late. You would do that? My husband’s son, so careless. He didn’t teach you that!”

The words blurred in my ears and didn’t reach my mind. I went to the market the next day, sold seventy fish, and came back to find my mother’s vomit in the center of our home.

“Did you go to the priest?” She asked.

“No.”

“Go tomorrow.”

I stored away the flour, rice, and onions I had bought. My mother would make me food with them. Then she would watch me eat the rice, the fragrant onions, and all the dishes he loved the least.

She washed clothes on the ground the next day. Swinging the paddle down, smacking and wringing the clothes. She should have been done much quicker than usual, but she took double the time. Twisting, wringing, smacking. Finally, she slept as I hung them on the line.

On the fourth day, she finally ate. She chewed, staring into the distance past me when I came home. The battle between us had become silent and it hurt me. She didn’t bother to ask anymore. She just cooked, filled my plate, swept the floor, and went to bed. Maybe her resolve died when the thoughts spun in her mind at night, or maybe she felt the coldness next to her, but then she would speak out, back turned to me, “did you go?”

If she thought I was asleep, I didn’t know. It became a ritual for her. Moments later, as if the burden of her responsibility was lifted, she would begin to snore.

“Mama,” I would say. “You’re starving.”

My uncle stopped by on the seventh day and brought a basket of fruits. He gave my mother some old jewelry that was my grandmother’s and gave me an old jacket. It was heavy. He would wear it in the wintertime, my uncle said, and it was a nice coat. “You’ll need it now.”

When he left, my mother peeled the five bananas and put them in the stove, burning them until a sweet smoky scent hovered over my cooking dinner. She cut the apples, plums, and mangoes, piled them all at once on a plate. “Eat.”

“You enjoy the bananas too,” I said.

I expected no response, or a bitter look, or more tears. My mother never lied; she would just become silent.

“I like bananas.”

“Then why did you burn them?”

“Did you go to the priest?”

“No.”

“Then I will burn every banana I’m given.”

I ate the sweet fruit. I picked up an apple slice, firm between my fingers, and raised it to her lips.

Her gaze flitted to mine with suspicion. They were red rimmed, heavy, and tired. They were so hungry, I could feel them take massive bites until they were full, and sigh with pleasure. She opened her mouth, sunk her teeth into the crunchy flesh, and chewed.

This went on until she began to cry so bad, her body shook like her chattering teeth. She crawled to her bed and lay on her stomach, clutching her shaking fists against her shoulders.

“Mama.”

“Don’t go! Never go! Stay here, stay here and feed me apples and give me fish! That’s all! Don’t ever listen to me!”

“You’ll starve.”

“Let me! Let me! Let me starve!”

“Mama, come here.”

She went quiet.

“Mama, I’ll go.”

She remained in her bed. I went to mine, and that night, she didn’t ask me like she’d done every night before. But I kept to my routine.

“You’re starving.”

The next morning, she woke with me as I was gathering my items. She was silent, and I didn’t say anything as she packed us apple slices. We left the house together.

My father had a specific way of walking. He would fill out his weight with each step, hefty, but stern, gliding with authority. His steps were straight, his arms swinging equal length each way. My mother used to say he walked like he was from the city, but he had only gone once.

“Maybe he learned it from someone,” we would speculate.

“Maybe he was like that since a child.”

“No no, you learn to walk like that. It doesn’t come naturally. Who walked like that? Not his father, nor his uncle. It’s not in the blood.”

“He’s still fishing?” A townsperson asked.

“When will he not? It pays good. Keep fishing. It runs the house.”

My mother never admitted it, but she would mimic his gait. She would walk with her back straight and arms equal distanced, but it would sit awkward on her frame. I would laugh at her and she would say “what!” and walk normally again, but then flick her gaze towards his walk a couple seconds later. She’d then fall back into the strange posture, and I would laugh again.

She walked next to me now. Slowly, as if testing the waters. I kept up with her pace and stared straight ahead on the path, but it didn’t take long until she slipped into it. First, her shoulders squared. Her neck is straighter, but her back is still humped, so it looks painful. Then, her arms swung in time. She tries to widen her stance and take bigger steps.

I cracked a smile.

She kept going and ignored me.

We finally got to the lake and her breaths sped up, tired from the quick pace. She looked over at the water as I untied the boat and began prepping for the day.

“Is it hard?” She asked.

“No, I have practice.”

“Yes, every day. Once, you were excited to go.”

“I don’t remember.”

“You hated being at home. Always waiting for him, so excited to see what he brought home. Then, you left. And it was just me. And now.”

“It is just us.”

“Yes, just us.”

The tide was gentle, and the water fell smoothly across the land. I helped my mother into the boat, and she held onto the side.

The sky was a warm orange as the sun rose. An orange in the air. Birds flew and she craned her neck to watch them flying in a V.

“I’ll soon forget,” she said. “How he used to walk.”

“You know it so well.” I waded the paddle through the wave.

“We used to walk together so often.”

“You can’t forget. It’s within your every step.”

She huffed. “Don’t be sweet now. I know you laughed.”

“I did laugh.”

The morning breeze was warm and helped us glide against the water easily.

“You won’t ever go?”

“Eventually,” I said. “I’ll go when I’m ready. And when you’re ready.”

“I will never be. That’s why you must go.”

“I can wait.”

She turned her attention away from the birds and watched me as I paddled.

“What are you whispering?”

“I’m calling to them. Come here, come here, mimic it like the waves. And they come.”

“And they come?” She asked.

“Enough for us to eat.”

“Yes, I see.” After a moment, “what else did he teach you?”

I retrieved a string from the bag and unwound the wheel against my fingers. I tied the knot with the line, pulling the ends away from each other as the loop formed. The farther they were separated, the tighter the knot became.

“You pull here, and the knot will stay tough,” I said. “But you pull like this, the knot will be messy. You see?”

She nodded.

“Do it like this and it will stay strong.”

“It will feed us,” she said.

“Yes, he will feed us. He will still feed us.”

She touched my fingers slightly, the gentlest graze.

“You will feed us. My son will feed me.”

She looked back over to where the birds were moments earlier, staring into that spot for a long time before watching me as I fished. Come here, come here.

“Come here,” she whispered to the lake. “Come here.”