This is a dream I had about my mother, who died five years ago.



It was two o'clock in the morning, yet the Harvard Square T station was still full of people. I moved my exhausted body next to the wall and closed my eyes. The whispers of couples, conversations among friends, the laughs and screams of several college kids kept flowing in my ears with the tones of a subway singer's guitar. I then turned my Sony Walkman's volume to the highest level and closed my eyes even tighter than before. . .

Once I step into the room, I recognize the smell of a wet wool sweater and the taste of hot cocoa on the tip of my tongue,-

"Oh, mother, I remember this sweater. I was naughty, wasn't I? I spilled a whole cup of hot cocoa on you just to get even."

"It is still my favorite sweater, though."

I lean against mother's wide shoulder, the two of us chatting just like old times. She looks so fresh and young in her green sweater.

"Yeah, olive green was your color. It hasn't changed a bit in . . ."

"Five years, Junjun," she reminds me with a smile. Her eyes are still bright and cheerful.

"Right." My heart is breaking with the word. I look up to her like a helpless infant. "Mommy, what should I do?"

As she caresses my hair with her fingers, she asks gently, "What happened?"

All the burden, all the agony suddenly bursts out from me with a flood of tears, "I am just so tired! I'm tired of trying, so tired of doing everything on my own, so tired of searching for someone to look after me, so tired of being rejected . . ."

Mother holds my wet cheeks between her two hands. "Stop looking to be dependent, because you will always get hurt if you rely on someone else instead of yourself." She then wipes my face with her handkerchief.

"Mommy's here now, don't cry anymore. It's all right. Let me fix you a cup of hot cocoa. I remember you used to go crazy for that stuff. . ."

"Come back, Mommy. I promise I won't spill any more cocoa. . ."

Mother's face suddenly looks full of pain."It's late, you have had a hard day. Let me tuck you in bed. . ."

"Hug me, Mommy, please?"

I love to hear mother's heartbeat and feel the softness of her wool sweater. n