THE MIGHTY END

The humid, weepy summer was unbearably hot. There was no air to breath, and if that wasn’t bad enough, it rained endlessly, as if the sky, choked up with tears, was trying to cry its heart out. It just drizzled and drizzled all the time.

“The roots are rotting in the soil from this heat and humidity,” remarked mother, observing the yellowing grass. “If it carries on like this, the sky will spill its pain over the earth. Why’s the sky so overcome with emotion that it can’t stop weeping? Next thing you know the potatoes will start rotting, too.”

The moment we went in, it started pouring again.

“Don’t ask me, it’s your sky, you should know what’s wrong with it,” I said as I took a swig of water from the paunchy carafe on the table. “I’m feeling tired. That’s it, I’m going to sleep.”

The shelter, dug in the ground, was dark, and the air inside was warm and a little musty. It left a bitter aftertaste in your mouth and squeezed your chest. But the shelter was the only safe place in the entire village, and I happily stretched out on the cot, which smelled of dampness. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I fell asleep.

My mother’s uneven and coarse breathing woke me up at night. When I called out to her, she groaned,

“I’m dying.”

“Wishful thinking,” I said in the sternest tone I could muster. “Dying’s easy, living is the tough part….”

That morning, when we were seeing off the last group of the wounded, my mother’s own wound was very small, so insignificant, in fact, that it appeared to be a mere scratch, and mother wouldn’t allow me bandage it.

“Why waste the bandages,” she said then, “save them, we may need them later.” And here she was now, moaning,

“I’m dying.”

I didn’t believe her, so I turned to the other side and wrapped myself tightly in the blanket.

“We shouldn’t have stayed,” mother said with self-deprecation. “That god-hearted driver insisted a thousand times—Get in the truck, come with us, there’s nothing here worth staying for. I’m like a predator, I get so attached to one place that I can’t part from it, and how are you going to fend for yourself alone, without me?” she kept chiding herself.

“Cut it out,” I muttered, annoyed, “like this darkness isn’t bad enough, and now you with all this talk.”

“Please be sure to cry over my body,” suddenly asked my mother.

“Whatever….”

“What, you can’t spare some salty water for your own mother?” she flared up.

“No, I can’t. If I cry, the water will eventually dry up but the salt crystallize and cover my soul like frost, and my soul will dry up and run cracks just like a salt-marsh.”

“This isn’t the time for idle talk,” she said didactically, “You are my sole heir, it’s your duty to mourn me in death.”

“Honestly, I have other things to worry about now. Why don’t you let me get some sleep, there’s so much we’ve got to do in the morning. We must go door to door and check every house—what if some scared child has been left behind in one of the houses, or people have abandoned dead bodies and such….”

“But I’ll be more than just some dead body to you. I’ve lived a decent live and fully deserve to have my passing mourned by my heir,” she kept insisting in a calm tone.

Annoyed, I finally sat up, pulling the thin, moldy blanket around me,          

“I’m so hungry right now that if you give me something to eat, I promise, I won’t just cry over you, I’ll even tear my hair in grief.”

“Well, there’re beets under the cupboards, and ….,” I didn’t even let her finish.

“Do you think you’re feeding the pigs? Beet!” I screamed, livid. “How about something sweet that you’ve stashed up?”

 “Nothing.”

“As if I don’t know you! I am sure you’ve put something away. Think carefully!” I wouldn’t let it go. “From what you used to give to the wounded? I want something sweet!”

“How about something stronger?” Though her voice was weakened, she tried to chide me. “I’m dying here and you’re harassing me for something sweet.”

“So?”

“Can’t you get it into your head that I’m dying?”

“What do you want me to do about it?” I started toying with her. “It so happens that I’m not a priest, so I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait.”

“One has to live a godly life to die with a priest.”

“And what, pray tell, was so ungodly about your life?” I thought to reassure her. “You never stole, never whored around. What sins have you committed?”

“You are my sin,” she said dejectedly.

We both fell silent for a while. I thought she’d fallen asleep—her breathing had grown more even.

It was dark. I had no idea what time it was. I curled up next to my mother, pressed my feet against hers, and felt how cold they were.

“I’m dying,” she whispered again.

“Maybe, you’re right,” said I, “your feel are ice-cold, like a dead person’s.”

“And I can’t breath,” she added with a choking sound, like letting out a sob after crying for a long time.

“Are you sure this is how one dies?”

“How should I know? This is the first time I’m dying.”

“I’ve seen many things but never seen a corpse crack jokes,” I chuckled. “Nothing’s going to happen to you, you’re just going to drive me nuts.”

“In any case, please make sure you cry over me,” my mother started again.

“Oh! I can only imagine what an unbearable child you were,” I sighed in mock-desperation.

“I was a wonderful child,” my mother said with emotion, “but promise me you’ll cry over me.”

“Oh, I’m getting sick and tired of this,” I was almost yelling at this point. “I’ll cry, I promise. And you think that tears are an expression of grief? People cry for many reasons - pain, joy, love, hate, helplessness, happiness, unhappiness,” I started enumerating these in a fit of anger.

“And you, what do you cry over?” she exploded.

“Nothing,” I cut in, cold and dry, “my soul has gone numb. Once you’ve seen war, nothing can make you cry. Have you seen how they drive needles under the nails of crazy people to awaken a feeling of pain in them? Right now I doubt I’d cry if I was being crucified.”

“Oh, dear Lord,” my mother started wailing. “What is this generation you’ve raised? I became very soft-hearted the day my mother died. My soul softened, and I cried. And there were so many funereal wreaths there…. We couldn’t make room for all of them in the house, and I started placing them under the exterior wall outside, and I sobbed the whole time. And people just kept coming and coming… My mother died and suddenly everyone noticed her existence…. I am an Armenian, I can’t hide my emotions, and least of all my grief - I wept loudly, and other women joined in. We cried in a chorus, and my grief was transformed into a song of lamentation….”

“I don’t know where you’re going with your story, but don’t count on my following your example. I don’t even have a singing voice.”

“You don’t have to be a nightingale to express your grief, a human voice will do just fine.”

“Don’t try to change my mind. I freeze over when I’m grieving, I lose my ability to talk, let alone sing….”

“So you won’t put your grief for me into a song?” my mother said, palpably disappointed.

“Not a chance.”

“What’s my life worth then?” she sobbed.

“Mom, I think you’re messing with my head,” I yawned.

“Well, you’ll only have to tolerate me for a little bit longer,” she said, clearly offended. “You’ll see, Archangel Gabriel will come for me soon,” she cleared her throat, barely holding back tears.

“Mom, has he promised you that he’s definitely coming?” I interrupted her, laughing.

“No,” she stopped. My question had startled her.

“If he hasn’t even promised, why are you setting your sights on strange men?” I carried on in the same jocular tone.

“Shame on you!” she burst out laughing. “Why are you in such a playful mood all of a sudden?”

“What else is there for me to do?”

“What do you mean, what else? Your mother’s dying.”

“She’s not dead yet.”

“You can mock the archangel and me all you want - when your time comes, you’ll follow him, meek as a puppy.”

“Well, there must be something special about him if everyone follows him so complacently.”

“How can I abandon her alone with this half-baked brain of hers?” my mother fell to worrying again.

“How about we make it through this night, and then we worry about it, ok?” I implored her.

“That’s not in my hands, is it?”

Half-way through that night, mother became delirious. She would periodically regain consciousness and start instructing me on how I should bury her—with everything properly done, in an expensive coffin with silk and velvet, with weeping relatives and unshaven men, with tables packed with abundant food but no sweets, with tears and wails, with an exaggerated account of her sufferings on earth, befitting the mournful occasion.

Mother died before the end of the night. I buried her by myself, first wrapping her in a rug eaten through with dampness. I loaded her body on a cart beaten by the rain ad the sun, with cracked sides. I had to drag the cart myself, since we’d eaten what was left of the cattle over the winter. The cart squeaked the entire way, and the shovel made hollow noises as it knocked against the side of the cart.

Luckily, the day was sunny and warm. I was all sweaty from dragging the heavy cart; my neck hurt from the tremendous effort, my muscles tightened and felt sore …. The dying cliff had disintegrated into small stones and blanketed with this rocky residue the tongue of the gorge, and now this uneven road chafed my feet. My heart was aching but there were no tears.

By the time I got to the cemetery, the sun had begun to set. It was still light out, and I still had no tears. I leaned against the side of the cart and pondered where to dig mother’s grave - next to my father, my grandmother, or in a new spot, so that I could secure some space for myself next to it.

And at the same time I felt sorry for my mother: her death didn’t materialize….

Translated, from the Armenian, by Margarit Tadevosyan-Ordukhanyan