My father was a cemetery (公墓)keeper. When I was a child, he often took me there. Before we left each time, he would lay some stones on some graves (坟墓). I never asked why. I just thought that was his work.
Yesterday, I visited my sick father. He asked me to go to the cemetery and lay some stones. For some reason, it had to be done that day. I agreed. I hadn't been there for a long time.
When I got there, I found a woman in front of one of the graves I would lay a stone on. As I bent to lay it, I heard her whisper "Thank you". It was then that I noticed the date of death on the grave was that same day. The grave was that of a child, only five when he died fifteen years ago.
"He's my son," she said. "But, where's your father? He was always the one to leave the stone."
I told her that my father was ill but he asked me to do this. It seemed important to him. "Your father's kindness means more to me than anything else. When my child died, I came often to see him. It is our custom to leave a stone. It tells the one who is here that he is thought of. But, then we moved away from here…so many painful memories. . . I was so afraid that he would be alone. But your father marked the grave every time he came. Each time I returned here, I saw that stone and it always comforted me. Your father is the kind of man who would ease the pain of a mother's heart though we are strangers. Just tell him you saw me today, won't you?" she said.
It took me a minute to find my voice. That small stone marked the grave of a child and the heart of his mother.
