That night she took me to the kitchen, to the table. From a small drawer she withdrew two letters. I could not tell in the poor light, but her hands seemed unsteady, a slight tremble I think but it could have just been my fatigue or even my imagination. The letters were from Erich, from the eastern front. One prior to Stalingrad, one during the siege. Carefully, she laid them out before me and then stood back, looked at me, and still not a word said. I leaned over. The letters were in his native language, of which I couldn't read a word.Do you see what I see she said. I shook my head. Look closer. Her words said with such force of integrity, each syllable as hammer on chisel upon granite, I felt ashamed. There was something here, something important to her, but I could not read the language. I leaned in again. Kept looking, hoping she would give me a clue. One is clean, she said, the penmanship precise. The other, dirty, the writing jagged, uneven, almost unreadable. They both say the same insipid nonsense that boys write to their mothers. But look. Can you see what I see. It is not in the words. It is in the hand. His hand. You see how it shakes. You see the smudges, the stains, the dirt, the lack of care. Look at them side by side. Tell me what has happened to my son.
Her eyes didn't blink and I felt compelled, almost commanded to look again as if to see into her world, her pain, her lost, of how a mother sees the world in what is not said, aware, acutely aware of the slightest change and in this change to imagine the world, to imagine the bitter cold that unsteadied a hand, of the conditions that fouled a letter, of the fatigue that aged her son. They were, these letters, as they had been written, summer and winter, day and night, hope and fear. This was the last communication, this letter on the right. The one that if I could have read the language, would have been hard to decipher.
I stood back. Her hand on the table was trembling. You are going to have a child, a son as you say. Love him every day. Again her words washed over me with an intensity, as if within her was a furnace, her lips a bellows. My arms opened as did hers. With her lips next to my ear she whispered, Not a day. Not a day you don't love him. Not one. I held her tighter and in a whisper of a whisper, as if speaking to herself, as if I had squeezed the words from her, she repeated, Nicht ein Tag. Kein Tag du liebst ihn nicht. Nicht eine.
17 comments:
Brilliantly written. They say that 80% of communication is non verbal. We train ourselves to detect the unsaid, the body language, the face, te atmosphere, the pen...
Jasmine, I've always been more interested in what is not said than what is. Something is always left out. And it is that something that completes the circle, tells the story, where truth hides behind the silent tongue.
Thanks for the kind words. Always appreciated.
You managed the non verbal communication so well in this piece Tree - really lovely.
Thanks Cat. Really enjoyed your 55 today. You do those so well.
"Tell me what has happened to my son."
I read this one line and had to pause. I actually found it difficult to continue on in the reading. I am the mother of a son. That you've managed to capture her anguish, that I felt the solid punch of those words ... you're not reaching a wide enough audience with your voice. You have a power that shouldn't be contained in just this space.
I don't know what else to say. Honestly.
Yes, what S. said. You drew me to my own. A mother, my god, being a mother. Had I momentarily forgotten the gift that it is, the weight, the importance?
I look to things as signs. Perhaps not signs designed in advance for my education or my direction, but signs nonetheless. This is a sign for me. I was already looking under the corner of me, prodding, but this was a good brisk punch.
And her, Erich's mother, how she looks and senses and sees, I can only hope to be that aware. Not a day...
(now you've gone and got me crying)
S, interesting that you point to that line. In the first draft of this post, that line didn't exist. Then I did what I always do after posting, I read it aloud. In the reading, this line you have plucked, simply slid into place. It came forth as if it were there to be read. I didn't think about it. The feeling was almost eerie, as if the sentence, the thought, the need was in me, needing to be released, to be given life. So I typed it in. Where it came from, I don't know, but it was inside of me. As, I think, it still is. I'm not sure I could separate it from me and still be me.
As for the rest of your comment. I am taking it to heart. You have given me a hug. And I needed a hug. I'm gonna hug back. Just so you know.
Erin, how do I hold your tears as jewels in my hands, for that is what they are to me, salty jewels worth more than diamonds and rubies, and emeralds. There have been days when the only thing that has kept me here, boots on the ground, is my son. As cruel and uncaring as it sounds, I could leave everything, but I can't leave him. He is, as Cormac has said, my world entire. To think of losing my only son, the way that Kathrin has, that unknowing of his fate, or even if he is dead, this I cannot imagine.
And then I am glad for your son.
That's me at your door.
I brought a mug a coffee.
Chocolate in my pocket.
You are in need.
What can a girl from Canada do?
What was it your uncle said about life?
xo
erin
Compelling...really magnificent. Having a son, I feel the special bond between a mother and a son and you have captured it here so well. I know I would notice the same little differences.
--snow
Thanks Snow. Hope all is well in your world.
Erin, I was here waiting and you came. And you came with coffee and chocolate but more importantly, you came, you were here, a verb. I want to touch your verb as I feel it now, as I feel your presence checking on me. It is raining here. I'm going to set the coffee down and let the rain tap its surface like a lake while I take you into my arms and feel your soft flesh press into me as thunder rolls and rain gently falls as the tears you squeeze from me with your arms, with your verbing. And Erin, you can verb me anytime.
Beautiful and emotive as always...
Thanks Janete. Hope you have a wonderful time on your trip to the U.S.
It's raining here, too. Does it rain everywhere at once?
And I am twisting rules again. I am here as verb and yet others know this verb in other clothing. I am Mother. I am the older woman you spoke of, one who has been there, been hurt, been sliced, been healed, and might have some remembrance as to how you might find that path. Only a scent of it though, no map I'm afraid. But I am here, if only to hold and pay witness to your pain, hold you in the rain.
Touch the window, ok. Touch the window and watch those tremulous drops and know, you are not alone.
xo
erin
I'm typing with one hand. The other is on my window.
Tears in my eyes at the brilliance of these last two posts. Back asap, x
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