愛駐我心 第12期:媽媽的手

Night after night, she came to tuck me in, even longafter my childhood years.

在我的童年時(shí)期，很長一段時(shí)間里，每個(gè)夜里，母親總習(xí)慣來為我掖住被角。

Following her longstanding custom, she’d lean down and push my long hair out of the way,then kiss my forehead.

撩開我的長頭發(fā)，親吻我的額頭。

I don’t remember when it first started annoying me—her hands pushing my hair that way.

不記得從何時(shí)起，我開始討厭她用手撥開我的頭發(fā)。

But it did annoy me, for they felt work-worn and rough against my young skin.

這確實(shí)很讓我惱火，因?yàn)槟赣H粗糙的雙手讓我感覺自己幼滑的肌膚在受到傷害。

Finally, one night, I shouted out at her, “Don’t do that anymore—your hands are too rough!”

終于，一天晚上，我沖她嚷道：“別再這樣了——你的手太粗糙了!”

She didn’t say anything in reply.

她什么也沒說。

But never again did my mother close out my day with that familiar expression of her love.

但母親再也沒有像這樣對(duì)我表達(dá)她的愛。

Time after time, with the passing years, my thoughts returned to that night.

一次又一次，隨著歲月的流逝，我的思緒又回到了那個(gè)晚上。

By then I missed my mother’s hands, missed her goodnight kiss on my forehead.

我想念那時(shí)母親的手，想念她晚上留在我額頭上的親吻。

Sometimes the incident seemed very close, sometimes far away.

有時(shí)這幕情景似乎很近，有時(shí)又似乎很遙遠(yuǎn)。

But always it lurked, in the back of my mind.

但它總是埋藏在我心底，時(shí)常浮現(xiàn)在我的腦海里。

Well, the years have passed, and I’m not a little girl anymore.

多年之后，我不再是昨天的那個(gè)小女孩了。

Mom is in her mid-seventies, and those hands I once thought to be so rough are still doingthings for me and my family.

但是現(xiàn)在75歲的母親仍舊用她那雙粗糙的雙手照顧著家人和我。

She’s been our doctor, reaching into a medicine cabinet for the remedy to calm a young girl’sstomach or soothe the boy’s scraped knee.

母親曾是我們的醫(yī)生，她可以從容冷靜地從醫(yī)藥箱拿出胃藥，治好小女孩的胃痛或給小男孩擦傷的膝蓋上敷藥。

She cooks the best fried chicken in the world,gets stains out of blue jeans like I never could.

她燒的炸雞是世界上最美味的,也可以弄干凈我怎么都不能洗干凈的藍(lán)色牛仔褲。

Now, my own children are grown and gone.

現(xiàn)在，我的孩子已經(jīng)長大了，離開了。

Mom no longer has Dad, and on special occasions, I find myself drawn next door to spend thenight with her.

父親也離開母親去了天堂，在特殊的節(jié)日里，我經(jīng)常會(huì)陪母親度過。

So it was late on Thanksgiving Eve, as I slept in the bedroom of my youth, a familiar handhesitantly ran across my face to brush the hair from my forehead.

所以在這個(gè)感恩節(jié)前夕，我睡在我小時(shí)候睡過的臥室里，感覺到一只那么熟悉的手熟練地梳理我前額上的頭發(fā)。

Then a kiss, ever so gently, touched my brow.

然后輕輕落下一個(gè)吻，永遠(yuǎn)這樣溫柔，撫摸我的眉毛。

In my memory, for the thousandth time, I recalled the night my young voice complained, “Don’tdo that anymore—your hands are too rough!”

在記憶中，我曾無數(shù)次回想起那晚我年幼的抱怨聲：“別再這樣了——你的手太粗糙了!”

Catching Mom’s hand in hand, I blurted out how sorry I was for that night.

我一把抓住母親的手，脫口而出：“我多么后悔那天晚上對(duì)您講過的話。”

I thought she’d remember, as I did. But Mom didn’t know what I was talking about.

我以為她和我一樣一直記得。但母親不知道我在說什么。

She had forgotten—and forgiven—long ago.

她很久以前就忘了，就已經(jīng)原諒了我。

That night, I fell asleep with a new appreciation for my gentle mother and her caring hands.

那天晚上，我睡著了，我對(duì)媽媽那雙溫柔而體貼的雙手有了一種新的感激之情。

And the guilt that I had carried around for so long was nowhere to be found.

而這么多年來，壓在我心頭的負(fù)罪感，也突然無處可尋。