I came home on February 10. After dinner, I went straight to bed. Half asleep, I thought I heard my phone ring. I woke briefly, then drifted off again. When I opened my eyes the next time, it was around ten at night.

I picked up my phone and saw a message from my younger brother. Just two words:

“Call back.”

If my brother was asking me to call, something must have happened. I immediately sat up and called him. No answer. A few minutes later, I tried again. Still no answer.

Half an hour later, I finally got through.

He said, “Mom is gone.”

I froze.

“What?” I asked instinctively.

He repeated, “Mom is gone.”

I couldn’t believe it.

By then, it was already the morning of February 11 in China. And only the morning before, on February 10, I had spoken to Mom on the phone.

Mom was hard of hearing. When she heard me calling, “Mom, Mom,” all she asked was, “Where are you?”

“I’m in America,” I said.

She didn’t hear me clearly.

“Where are you?”

I raised my voice. “I’m in America.”

She still couldn’t make out my words, so I ended up talking with my brother for a long time instead.

At lunchtime that same day, my brother, who was staying with our parents, sent me a photo of them eating. Mom liked to have a drink with her meals. In the picture, my brother was holding up his glass, clinking it against hers.

Who could have imagined that barely more than ten hours later, she would be gone?

When I called home that night, my brother was dressing Mom in the clothes she would be buried in. That was why he hadn’t answered the phone. By the time we finally spoke, the funeral home had already come and taken her away.

My brother told me that on the evening of the tenth, Mom had eaten pumpkin porridge and steamed bread. Nothing seemed unusual. At around ten, she and Dad went back to their bedroom to rest.

There is a video of Mom slowly walking toward the bedroom that night.

That image of her from behind became the last image she left us after eighty-five years in this world.

Mom had always been in fairly good health. When I returned to China the previous October, the organization where my parents had worked happened to arrange medical checkups for retirees. Nothing concerning was found.

But a few days before she died, my brother sent me a photograph of Mom and Dad sitting side by side on the sofa. Dad’s eyes were still bright and alert. Mom looked so frail.

So very frail.

The photograph startled me. I remember thinking: Mom, wait for me. As soon as I finish what I need to do here, I’ll come back to see you.

But Mom did not wait for me. She died in her sleep.

On the morning of February 11, when my brother went to wake her, her hands were folded across her chest. Her face was as peaceful and serene as ever.

Only she was no longer breathing.

It was February 2020, when the COVID-19 outbreak in China was at its most frightening. Everyone in the residential community was on edge. Although Mom did not have COVID, the community quickly contacted the funeral home, and she was taken away from home.

Our home is quite large. In her later years, Mom loved to sleep. After a meal, she would often want to lie down. Different bedrooms, different beds, different sofas—it didn’t matter. Wherever she happened to be, if she felt sleepy, she would simply lie down and rest.

Whenever I was home and saw that she wanted to sleep, I would help her slowly lie down, then carefully pull a light blanket over her.

Mom had one habit: when she slept, her entire body had to be covered.

Even in summer, she wanted the blanket tucked securely around her. Then I would bend down and kiss her cheek.

Mom had beautiful skin—fair, smooth, with a natural rosy glow. She also had wonderful hair. I often teased her. “Mom, if I didn’t dye my hair, I’d have more gray hair than you. How come you didn’t pass those good genes on to me?” And Mom would smile shyly, like a little girl.

But now Mom had left her warm bed. She had left her warm home. She had gone somewhere cold. Mom, you must be so cold.

Leaning against the headboard of my bed, I felt the tears slowly cover my face.

Mom had been dressed in four layers of clothing, but I still felt that she must be cold. Because there was no longer a warm hand holding hers. No longer someone warm bending down to kiss her face.

The same image kept appearing before my eyes: Mom lying in bed, her right hand outside the blanket. I wanted so badly to walk over, take that hand in mine, and kiss her face. But I could not.

Not anymore.

It was an extraordinary time, and everything had to be kept simple. One day later, Mom was to be cremated. My brother sent me the schedule for that day.

After work, I got into the car with my husband, who had come to pick me up, and we hurried home. The sky was gray and heavy. There were so many cars on the road. I was desperate to get home.

When I arrived, I shut myself in a room and tried to imagine, with every part of myself, what was happening on the other side of the earth.

At 7:40 that evening, Mom was to enter the cremation chamber. I faced east, toward China. I knelt down and bowed my head to the floor three times to see my mother off. After the third bow, I did not want to get up.

I said to her: “Mom, don’t be afraid. I’m here. I’m seeing you off.” My knees were bad, and when I first knelt down, a sharp pain shot through them. But slowly, a warmth began to spread through my body. Little by little, the pain in my knees disappeared. Dozens of minutes later, when I finally stood up, my knees did not hurt at all.

Mom, did you come to me? Was it you who gave me that warmth? You didn’t want me to hurt, did you?

Mom, we lived thousands of miles apart. Each year, I could only go back and spend one month with you. But now, at last, you can come and see me whenever you want.

Mom, I always chose autumn to come home to you. It wasn’t because autumn meant I could eat all the fresh jujubes I wanted. It was because the long National Day holiday, the Mid-Autumn Festival when families come together, and your birthday all fell in autumn.

How beautiful you looked wearing your birthday crown, with Dad holding you against his chest.

You had a childhood nickname: Qiuxiang—Autumn Fragrance. Dad used to love singing to you: “Let me tell you, little Qiuxiang, don’t be so mischievous…”

Mom, without Dad’s arms around you, you must be cold.

Do you remember when we were children? You and the three of us—your children—would all gang up on Dad in that tiny home of ours, wrestling with him on the bed. Dad was young and strong then. No matter how hard the four of us fought, no matter how drenched in sweat we became, we still could not “beat” him. How small our home was then. How full of noise and laughter we were.

Mom, without all that warmth, all that laughter, all that sweat, you must be cold.

And yet, on that final day, you still left the last of your warmth for me.

Note: Qiuxiang is the heroine of the Chinese film Three Charming Smiles (San Xiao). The line beginning “Let me tell you, little Qiuxiang…” is from a song in the film.