Writing Blog 4

Going Back to My Motherland
The bus stopped. I rushed to get off. Blazing summer sunlight seemed to tear my umbrella in order to burn my skin. Beads of sweat gradually absorbed into a new white T-shirt. The stinking smell from a fish sauce factory made the atmosphere become stifling. I paced quickly as if I was chased.
Standing in front of a house which I have lived in childhood few minutes, I remained transfixed by everything around me. My old house became quiet and sad. Nobody opened the door to welcome me. My cousin, a mental person, ran close to me, held my hand, and took me toward a wrinkle gaunt woman lying on the bed. That woman was my grandmother.
Surrounded by a piece of big nylon to be convenient for doing business, wooden bars on her bed captivated mold growing on them. At this bed, thirteen years ago, a seven-year girl furtively used to clean it every morning when she woke up and saw her pants wet. Also, that girl was me. I was scared that my grandmother shouted at me. But now my grandmother was no longer angry at me, she just has laid there without remembering anything. I strongly desired that she could yell at me, eventually abuse me. But she couldn’t. I expected her to call my name, but she couldn’t.
Then I went back to my motherland again. This time wasn’t similar to another time. My father, my mother, my siblings and I wore new clothes-funeral clothes. As a statue, I looked people closing the coffin which contained my grandmother’s body. I heard the relative’s scream, but I didn’t cry. The caravan came back after dropping my grandmother off to the heaven. Priests were preparing a chant to pray for my grandmother. We line up after priests. My house was quieter. In the consecutive beating bell, I felt lack of something, my grandmother. The lines where my eyelashes stuck out were clammy. I just uttered: “grandmother” and fell down.