A Grave on the Hilltop
The translation of Martin Aleida’s Indonesian short story “Sebuah Makam di Pucuk Bukit” by Tjahaja.
“Dul, take me home…,” Mom suddenly sulked across the dining table. “My coconut field…,” she continued to say. “It’s been a month since I left. The weeds must have been overgrown.” Like a drought-stricken leaf, her eyes were truly pleading.
Slowly, I placed the spoon in the center of the plate, offered a smile, and met mom’s gaze across the table. My imagination floated away instantly. How happy mom must have felt yesterday, walking shoulder to shoulder with me around the neighborhood. In the neighbor’s yard, the coconut leaves sizzle on their tops. Surely it was the soothing morning breeze on the leaves that had sent Mom’s memory back to her hometown. “Bah…,” she said as she stopped walking at that moment. “I never thought there would be coconut trees in Java. Low and dense too…,” she said with mesmerized eyes.
Mom was flown by my older brother to Jakarta after it became clear that the treatment she was undergoing in Sumatra was not helping. The blood vessels in her left leg became narrower and narrower, making the muscles stiff and making it difficult for her to move. I immediately took her to an acquaintance-doctor.
