A Mother's Tears

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The place was quiet...as quiet as it was cold. There were no fancy lights adorning the shabby little cabin, but newspapers and used cardboards sealed the cracks and holes that plagued its wooden walls. There was no laughter of merry family members sitting around a sumptuous meal celebrating the season. But in the dark and tiny kitchen stood an empty, scratch infested table that hadn't had the company of its masters since the summer that had just passed. Just beside the kitchen, in a room barely lit by a single light bulb that hung loosely from the ceiling, were two people quietly sitting on a bed. One could tell by their weary and dismal demeanour that the wintry evening wasn't the miscreant behind the murder of their joy and ardour. "Come on now, you have to finish it all up," Prisca gently urged her son as she held a spoon in front of his lips with one hand, and with the other, a bowl of soup. Her hands were old and trembling, and the scars on her sagging rough skin, if they could, would tell tales of a life of sweat and toil. Prisca Ralte had always been hard-working. However, after the death of her husband, whatever she had been doing before to make life a little easier, to put a little more food on the table, wasn't quite enough anymore. It became a struggle each day to feed her son and herself. She carried bricks and rendered cement; she cleaned houses and looked after children; she sold vegetables and flowers from the garden she grew behind their cabin, and found no time to mourn. Harsh times persisted and lingered, and a year after her husband's death, she could no longer keep her son in school. The young boy of twelve started selling newspapers in the town, and occasionally, he would also sell a few v... ... middle of paper ... ...s were awkwardly raised. Her mouth was slightly opened, and her eyes were dismal and confused. Perhaps she should go back inside and wait for him to come. She knew that her son had left her... but she hadn't touched him, nor had she cradled his face. Perhaps she should go inside, and it would turn out to be a bad dream...or maybe she could fool herself a little longer into believing her son was still with her. But she kept on walking...walking, until she stood beside her son. She dropped down on the ground and felt his cold, lifeless body. She held him in her arms and caressed and cradled his face. The reason why she had kept going, the only reason why she lived, lay lifeless in her arms. The sun was bright and warm, and some of the crops that Peter had planted had sprouted. In the distance, a church bell chimed...only to be drowned in the cries of the old mother.

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