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r佚名
Anonymous
TothisdayIremembermymumsletters。ItallstartedinDecember1941。EverynightshesatatthebigtableinthekitchenandwrotetomybrotherJohnny,whohadbeendraftedthatsummer。WehadnotheardfromhimsincetheJaaneseattackedPearlHarbor。
IdidntunderstandwhymymumketwritingJohnnywhenheneverwroteback。
“Waitandsee-wellgetaletterfromhimoneday,”sheclaimed。MumsaidthattherewasadirectlinkfromthebraintothewrittenwordthatwasjustasstrongasthelightGodhasgrantedus。ShetrustedthatthislightwouldfindJohnny。
Idontknowifshesaidthattocalmherself,dadorallofusdown。ButIdoknowthatitheledussticktogether,andonedayaletterreallydidarrive。JohnnywasaliveonanislandinthePacific。
Ihadalwaysbeenamusedbythefactthatmumsignedherletters,“CeciliaCauzzi”,andIteasedheraboutthat。“Whydontyoujustwrite‘Mum?”Isaid。
IhadntbeenawarethatshealwaysthoughtofherselfasCeciliaCauzzi。NotasMum。Ibeganseeingherinanewlight,thissmalldelicatewoman,whoeveninhigh-heeledshoeswasbarelyoneandahalfmeterstall。
Sheneverworemake-uorjewelryexcetforaweddingringofgold。Herhairwasfine,sleekandblackandalwaysutuinaknotintheneck。Shewouldnthearofgettingahaircutoraerm。Hersmallsilver-rimmedince-nezonlylefthernosewhenshewenttobed。
Whenevermumhadfinishedaletter,shegaveittodadforhimtoostit。Thensheutthewaterontoboil,andwesatdownatthetableandtalkedaboutthegoodolddayswhenourItalian-Americanfamilyhadbeenafamilyoften:mum,dadandeightchildren。Fiveboysandthreegirls。Itishardtounderstandthattheyhadallmovedawayfromhometowork,enrollinthearmy,orgetmarried。Allexcetme。
Aroundnextsringmumhadgottwomoresonstowriteto。Everyeveningshewrotethreedifferentletterswhichshegavetomeanddadafterwardssowecouldaddourgreetings。
Littlebylittletherumouraboutmumsletterssread。Onedayasmallwomanknockedatourdoor。Hervoicetrembledassheasked:“Isittrueyouwriteletters?”
“Iwritetomysons。”
“Andyoucanreadtoo?”whiseredthewoman。
“Sure。”
Thewomanoenedherbagandulledoutaileofairmailletters。“Read……leasereadthemaloudtome。”
TheletterswerefromthewomanssonwhowasasoldierinEuroe,ared-hairedboywhomumrememberedhavingseensittingwithhisbrothersonthestairsinfrontofourhouse。MumreadthelettersonebyoneandtranslatedthemfromEnglishtoItalian。Thewomanseyeswelleduwithtears。“NowIhavetowritetohim,”shesaid。Buthowwasshegoingtodoit?
“Makesomecoffee,Octavia,”mumyelledtomeinthelivingroomwhileshetookthewomanwithherintothekitchenandseatedheratthetable。Shetookthefountainen,inkandairmailnoteaerandbegantowrite。Whenshehadfinished,shereadtheletteraloudtothewoman。
“HowdidyouknowthatwasexactlywhatIwantedtosay?”
“Ioftensitandlookatmyboysletters,justlikeyou,withoutaclueaboutwhattowrite。”
Afewdayslaterthewomanreturnedwithafriend,thenanotheroneandyetanotherone-theyallhadsonswhofoughtinthewar,andtheyallneededletters。Mumhadbecomethecorresondentinourartoftown。Sometimesshewouldwritelettersalldaylong。
Mumalwaysinsistedthateolesignedtheirownletters,andthesmallwomanwiththegreyhairaskedmumtoteachherhowtodoit。“Isomuchwanttobeabletowritemyownnamesothatmysoncanseeit。”Thenmumheldthewomanshandinhersandmovedherhandovertheaeragainandagainuntilshewasabletodoitwithoutherhel。
Afterthatday,whenmumhadwrittenaletterforthewoman,shesigneditherself,andherfacebrighteneduinasmile。
Onedayshecametous,andmuminstantlyknewwhathadhaened。Allhoehaddisaearedfromhereyes。Theystoodhandinhandforalongtimewithoutsayingaword。Thenmumsaid:“Webettergotochurch。Therearecertainthingsinlifesogreatthatwecannotcomrehendthem。”Whenmumcamebackhome,shecouldntgetthered-hairedboyoutofhermind。
Afterthewarwasover,mumutawaytheenandaer。“Finito,”shesaid。Butshewaswrong。ThewomenwhohadcometoherforhelinwritingtotheirsonsnowcametoherwithlettersfromtheirrelativesinItaly。TheyalsocametoaskherforherhelingettingAmericancitizenshi。
Ononeoccasionmumadmittedthatshehadalwayshadasecretdreamofwritinganovel。“Whydidntyou?”Iasked。
“Alleoleinthisworldareherewithonearticularurose,”shesaid。“Aarently,mineistowriteletters。”Shetriedtoexlainwhyitabsorbedherso。
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