第2章 在追忆中成长

Grow in Memories

The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen nor even touched, but just felt in the heart.

—Helen Keller

世界上最好和最美丽的事物，用眼睛看不见，用手摸不到，只能用心去体会。

——海伦·凯勒

A Time for Memories

松树下的生命轮回

Sharon Wright

One balmy[1] summer afternoon, I sat on an old blanket under a pine tree chatting with my mother. For years, we had been coming to this park for family picnics and gatherings, and my mother and I often sat in this same spot.

In recent years, we usually just talked about life, but sometimes we recalled events from my childhood. Like the time I was thirteen and had my first date, when Mother brought me to this spot under the tree and told me about the facts of life. Or the time a few years later, when my hair turned out pink for my senior prom and she'd held me while I cried. But the most special event that occurred next to this tree was when I told Mother I was getting married. Tears filled her eyes and this time I held her while she cried. She told me she was sad to lose her little girl but happy to see that I had turned into a beautiful young woman.

Over the years, we'd watched the pine trees in this park grow tall and straight until their needles seemed to touch the clouds. Each year of their growth seemed to match our increasingly close relationship and the deepening love we had for each other.

On this particular sunny afternoon, Mother and I sat quietly breathing in the scent of freshly mown grass. She was unusually solemn and took me by surprise when she asked me, “Who will you bring here after I'm gone?”

I gave her one of my arched-eyebrow inquiries, then smiled. After a few moments, when she didn't return my smile, I began to wonder what made her ask such a disturbing[2] question. Mother picked up a blade of grass and began to shred it with her fingernail. I'd become well acquainted with my mother's habits, and this particular one indicated she had something serious on her mind.

For several minutes, we sat in silence gathering our thoughts. A couple of blue jays squawked[3] nearby and an airplane flew overhead, but they didn't ease the awkward moment between us. Finally, I reached over and took my mother's hand in mine. “There's nothing you can't tell me, Mother,” I said. “We will handle this together, like we always have.”

She looked into my face, and her eyes filled with tears that spilt down her cheeks that were alarmingly[4] pale. Even before she said it, I knew what was coming. Mother was dying.

I held her tightly while she told me that her heart condition was worsening and couldn't be repaired. I think I had known for quite a while but had not been willing to admit it to myself. She'd had several heart attacks and, a few years ago, even open-heart surgery. What I didn't know, and what she had kept from me, was that her condition wasn't improving. We talked about her options, which were few; we cried, held each other and wished for more time together.

That was many years ago now. Mother died soon after that day, before my sons had a chance to know her. I still come to the park, but now I bring my boys. I still sit under that same sturdy pine tree on an old blanket and talk to my sons of family picnics, gatherings and the grandmother they never knew. Just as my mother did with me, I tell my children about their youthful antics and praise them for their accomplishments as young adults. We come to this special place to create our own memories that I know would make my mother smile with pride.

Not long ago my oldest son wanted to come to the park and talk, so we came and sat under our tree. He hemmed and hawed for a few minutes, then he finally told me he was getting married. I cried tears of joy as my son hugged me—his hug a rare and special treat. I told him how proud I was of the man he had become.

As I sat there that cool April afternoon soaking up the sun and the smell of freshly mown grass, I felt I had come full circle under this giant pine tree. Holding my son in my arms, I was happy for him, just the way I knew my mother had been happy for me all those years ago when I told her I was getting married.

Looking over my son's shoulder, I saw that several young pine saplings had been planted recently. As these trees grow straight and tall, I thought, will the lives of my family continue to grow with them? I wanted to share this spot with my grandchildren, too.

The branches above were swaying in the breeze and in them I heard a whispering voice: Who will you bring here when I'm gone? It was my mother's voice, and I tightened my arms around my son.

一个阳光和煦的夏日午后，公园大松树下的地上铺了一层老旧的地毯，我和母亲坐在上面静静地聊天。多年以来，我们一直在这个公园举行家庭聚会、野餐，而我和母亲就时常坐在这棵松树下。

最近这些年，我们大多数只是谈论生活，但有时也会回忆我童年时代的一些往事。比如，13岁那年我第一次约会，母亲就把我带到这里，在松树下告诉了我很多生活的真谛；比如，又过了几年，即将从中学毕业的我，变成了一个染着粉红色头发的叛逆少女，而就在这棵松树下，我紧紧地依偎在母亲怀里失声痛哭。但是，最让人难忘的是，在这棵松树下，我告诉母亲我要结婚了。那一刻，喜悦的泪水溢满了她的眼眶，我紧紧地搂住母亲。她说，此刻，她既为即将失去她的小女孩而难过，也为她的小女孩终于长成美丽的年轻女子而欣喜不已。

多年来，我们眼看着这棵松树越长越高，越来越直，逐渐长成直逼云霄的参天大树。它的成长恰似母亲与我的关系；随着岁月的流逝，我们越来越亲密，对彼此的爱也越来越深。

在这个阳光灿烂的午后，草坪刚刚修过，我和母亲静静地坐着，呼吸着空气中弥漫着的青草芳香。她显得格外沉默而肃穆。出乎意料地，她忽然问我道：“在我走了以后，你会带谁来这里呢？”

我不禁扬起了眉毛，惊讶地想要问点什么，却又很快露出了一丝微笑。过了很久，她仍旧对我的微笑没有丝毫回应。我开始疑惑她为什么会问这样一个让人不安的问题。母亲捡起一片青草，用指甲不停地撕扯着。我对母亲的习惯非常熟悉，这个动作意味着她的脑海里正在思考很重要的事情。

有那么一会儿，我们安静地坐着，只是整理着自己的思绪。一对蓝色松鸦在不远处嘎嘎地惊叫着，飞机从我们头顶上一掠而过，但这一切似乎都没能缓和我们之间的尴尬气氛。后来，我伸出双手，紧紧握住母亲的手，说道：“妈妈，这世上没有什么事是你不能和我说的。让我们一起来面对吧，就像我们一直以来的那样。”

她看着我，脸色苍白得惊人。她的眼泪夺眶而出，洒落在她的双颊上。在她开口说话之前，我已然明白：母亲已经老了，来日无多了。

我将她紧紧地抱在怀中。她告诉我说，她的心脏功能正在不断恶化，很可能无法康复。其实，相当长的一段时间以来，我就知道她的病情不容乐观，只不过心里一直不愿意承认这个事实罢了。几年前，她多次突发心脏病，甚至接受了心脏手术。但我不知道的是，她一直对我隐瞒了真实病情，谎称她的情况在不断地好转。我们谈到了她面前极其有限的几种选择，忍不住抱头痛哭起来，但愿我们在一起的时间能再多一点，再长一点。

那天之后不久，母亲就去世了，甚至还来不及看一眼她即将出生的外孙们。转眼间，很多年过去了。我依然时不时地会去公园，只不过现在是带着我的儿子们一起。我还会坐在那棵粗壮的大松树下，坐在那老旧的地毯上，向儿子们回忆起在这里办过的家庭聚会和野餐，还有他们未曾谋面的外祖母。我也会像母亲对我一样，对儿子们诉说他们年幼时的种种趣事，赞扬他们成年后取得的种种成绩。我们来到这个拥有特殊意义的地方，创造属于我们自己的回忆，而这些甜蜜的回忆，我相信，一定会让在天有灵的母亲倍感欣慰与骄傲。

不久前，我的大儿子想来公园与我谈谈。于是，我们来到了那棵大松树下坐了下来。一开始他支支吾吾，闪烁其词，后来终于鼓起勇气告诉我说，他要结婚了。一时之间，我喜极而泣，而他紧紧地拥抱着我。要知道，这对他来说是多么罕见而特殊的举动。我对他说，你终于长大了，成为男子汉了，我为你感到骄傲。

凉爽四月的下午，我坐在那里，沐浴着春日的阳光，嗅着草坪的清香，忽然发觉我的人生在这棵大松树下完成了圆满的轮回。我用双臂拥抱着儿子，为他感到高兴，就如同许多年以前，母亲在听闻我即将嫁为人妇时为我感到高兴一样。

从儿子的肩上望过去，我看到几株新栽的松树苗，心想：当这些树苗长得笔直挺拔、高耸入云时，我的家人也会伴随着它们一起成长吗？我也想和孙子孙女们分享这里的一切。

树枝在微风中婆娑摇曳着，仿佛有阵阵窃窃私语在耳畔浮现：在我走了以后，你会带谁来这里呢？不错，那是我母亲的声音。我不禁将儿子抱得更紧了。

【美丽语录】

The memory of my mother and her teachings were, after all, the only capital I had to start life with, and on that capital I have made my way. —Andrew Jackson

对母亲的记忆和母亲的教诲是我人生起步的唯一资本，它奠定了我的人生之路。——安德鲁·杰克逊

The Mother Box

母亲之盒

Linda Webb Gustafson

Late one December evening, bathed in the soft light of the Christmas tree, I lay on the couch with my eyes closed, letting my memories swirl[5] around in pools of thought. Returning to the present, I opened my eyes and immediately my gaze fell upon a beautiful miniature Christmas city that lined my fireplace mantel. Well, it was really only half a city, as my dad had divided it between my sister and me twenty-five years earlier after our mother had passed away.

Little twinkle lights glowed from behind red cellophane windows in the tiny cardboard houses that had lined the living-room bookshelves of my childhood.

With no warning, the words tumbled out like a spilled glass of aged wine words that had been hidden in my heart a long time, waiting to surface, “Mom, I miss you so much.”

An ocean of tears ebbed[6] and flowed for nearly an hour, and then the idea emerged. If I felt this way then surely my brother and sister did, too. Twenty-five years, five senses, one box that's what I would do I would capture the essence of my mother and place her in a box a Mother Box one for each of her children.

I began to think of our mother in terms of what scent encompassed her, what look best described her, what sound echoed “Mother”, and so on.

Including my ten-year-old daughter, Shiloah, in my quest, we searched to put together pieces of a grandmother she'd never met.

First came the box all the memories would be housed in. Such a vast display we found. Flowered ones of every type ever found in a garden, ones with stars on them, moons, old-fashioned Victorian images, hearts and ones with Christmas themes, and then we saw them angels! Yes, for a mother no longer of this Earth, it was perfect. But, there were only two. One sister, one brother I'd make one for myself another time.

Oddly enough, the entire day was like that. We'd find two of just what we needed, no more, no less. With mounting excitement we took our treasures home and wrapped them with great love.

A river of memories wound its way through a thickly wooded forest of words, painting a picture of a thousand yesterdays, growing straight and tall like new seedlings among the old growth. Sealed with a simple envelope, they awaited their intended.

Just the right time presented itself to give my brother his box. As his eyes fell upon its contents, this man of thirty-seven was reduced to tears. My father was standing there, and I'll never forget the faraway look on his face. The years were melting away with each item my brother lifted from the Mother Box.

A package of grits representing a woman who grew up in the South and served it to her children for breakfast in Oregon, her favorite Johnny Mathis music, a shiny silver Christmas bow that felt like the party dresses she wore, a single silk red rose representing dozens my father had given her. I included the famous story of how once when they were courting, he brought long-stemmed roses that were as long as he was tall! She adored red roses. Finally, a bottle of her favorite perfume, Emeraude. I could hardly believe they still made it, but there it was, that familiar green. The shape of the bottle had changed over the years, but when I sprayed the misty fragrance into the air, it was unmistakably the scent of our mother.

This journey of the heart, traveled with my daughter, brought us together in spirit. We were both bound with the cords of love from the life of a woman long gone, yet still sewn tightly in the memory quilt[7] of our minds. We saw the continuing thread of life reflected in each other's eyes.

Then my daughter handed me a box. Inside was the essence of my mother the fragrance of another generation. I reached out to touch her legacy, opened the perfume bottle and sprayed[8], and she surrounded us.

12月的一个深夜，屋内圣诞树的灯光柔和而又温馨，我闭着眼睛躺在沙发上，思绪游荡开去，回忆起种种往事来。当我张开双眼回到现实中时，我的目光忽然落在壁炉架上陈列着的精美的圣诞之城微缩模型上。事实上，那只不过是半个模型罢了。25年前母亲去世时，父亲把这个微缩模型的一半分给了姐姐，另一半分给了我。

在我小的时候，这座小小的纸板房总是放在客厅的书架上。红色玻璃纸做的窗户，后面装着一闪一闪的小灯，宛如星星在眨着眼睛。

没有任何征兆地，长久以来深藏在我心底的一句话，突然就像一杯打翻的陈年红酒一般倾泄而出：“妈妈，我是如此地想念你。”

在接下来的一小时里，我哭哭停停，不知流了多少眼泪，直到心里忽然间冒出一个主意来。我想，如果我对母亲的感觉如此强烈，那么我的兄弟姐妹们也一定感同身受。我要把这25年的时间通过五种感官做成一只盒子——一只“母亲之盒”，每只盒子里放入代表母亲特质的东西，分别送给兄弟姐妹们。

我开始回想，什么香味是母亲身上特有的，什么样子最能代表母亲，什么声音最能唤起对母亲的回忆，如此种种。

我们开始努力拼凑关于母亲的记忆碎片，就连我那10岁的女儿夏洛伊，也在我的要求下帮忙搜寻从未见过的外祖母的点点滴滴。

最重要的是，这个盒子必须包含我们对母亲的所有回忆。我们找到了很多很多，比如，花园里能找到的各种花朵，带有星星或月亮的各种物品，老式的维多利亚女王头像，心型纪念品以及各种圣诞饰物。我们还找到了天使图案的纪念品。的确，对于已然去世的母亲来说，天使是最完美的纪念物。但是，我们只找到了两个，一个给我姐姐，一个给我哥哥。我只能下次再给自己重新做一个了。

非常奇怪的是，一天下来，我们找到的每种纪念物都只有两个，不多不少。每当找到什么东西时，我们总是异常兴奋，满怀爱意，然后小心翼翼地将其包好，把我们的宝贝带回家去。

回忆就像一条蜿蜒曲折的河流，穿过茂密的丛林，绘出一幅由成千上万个昨日组成的美丽画卷。新的回忆，如同新长成的幼苗，在老树旁越长越高，越长越挺拔。回忆也像一封往日的信札，用朴素的信封简单封缄，在预定的时间被送至收信人手中，不早不晚，恰到好处。

我在适当的时候把盒子送给了我的哥哥。当他看见盒子里的物品时，这个37岁的男人忍不住潸然泪下。那时，我父亲也站在旁边，他脸上若有所思的表情让我永生难忘。看着我哥哥将盒中之物一件一件地取出，这么多年的岁月顷刻间都融化成浓浓的回忆。

一包粗燕麦粉，尽管我们住在俄勒冈州，但在南方长大的母亲经常喂孩子们吃这种食物；她最喜爱的约翰·马西斯的音乐唱片；一枚闪亮的银质蝴蝶结，看上去非常像她穿过的晚礼服的风格；一朵真丝红玫瑰，代表父亲曾经送给她的很多玫瑰花。母亲非常钟爱红玫瑰，并且，玫瑰花也隐喻着发生在他们之间的一个故事：当初恋爱时，父亲曾经送给母亲一支玫瑰花，花茎很长，据说和父亲的身高一样长！最后，盒子里还有一瓶她最喜爱的埃莫罗德香水。令我难以置信的是，现在他们居然还在生产这种香水。尽管瓶身的形状变了，但那绿莹莹的颜色却是再也熟悉不过了。我朝着空气喷洒香水，飘渺的香气四溢，那一刻，我确信不疑，那就是母亲身上的气味。

我和女儿共同完成了这段心灵之旅，我们彼此在精神上也更加亲近了。通过爱的纽带，我们与一个逝去已久的生命——母亲，连结在一起；然而，我们也在内心深处细密地编织着属于自己的厚重记忆。在彼此眼中，我们看到了丝丝缕缕生命延续的光芒。

女儿随后将一只盒子交给我，里面保存着我母亲的特别气味，那是一种属于上一代人的香气。我伸手取出香水瓶，向四周喷洒。香气弥漫开来，恍惚之间，仿佛母亲一直就在我们身边，从未离去。

【美丽语录】

Youth fades; love droops; the leaves of friendship fall. A mother's secret hope outlives them all.—Oliver Wendell Holmes

青春会逝去；爱情会枯萎；友谊的绿叶也会凋零。而一个母亲内心的希望比它们都要长久。——奥利弗·温戴尔·荷马

Dads Will Be Dads

父亲不可替代

Susan M. Lang

While I was pregnant with my first child, sweltering[9] through the endless, fiery summer months in which ankles swelled and sweat poured forth profusely, I wanted only one thing: to give birth.

“I can't wait until this child is out,” I would huff and puff in frustration.

My husband lovingly reassured me that the baby would spring forth at the appointed time. That some day I would be free from the burden of the added weight and the painful swollen ankles. I, however, felt as if the child had taken up permanent residence.

“Suppose the kid likes it in here and doesn't want to leave,” I would say.

“Highly unlikely, dear. The baby will be here before you know it,” he insisted, his feet still grounded firmly in reality, while mine were constantly elevated.

As it turned out, when my water broke that fateful[10] evening, I was shocked into reality. Our first daughter did leave the womb and enter the atmosphere. She even arrived three weeks early.

When Mary was born, I was overjoyed. Not only was it a relief to hold her tiny body in my arms, but she was a red-headed beauty. Even when she was minutes old, I felt that we had a unique attachment. And we did, for she had been a part of me. However, what I didn't anticipate was how difficult it would be to let her go.

For those nine months that seemed like an eternity, the baby had been mine…all mine. She was joined with me and depended on only me for survival. Even though Tom could feel her kick through the womb[11] as she grew bigger, I usually had to notify him that she was moving. He depended on me to tell him what the baby was doing. The communication that Mary and I had was ours alone. Now, she was in the world and I had to share her with others. Including her dad.

Now, it's not that I didn't trust him. My husband is a compassionate husband and father. It's just that he doesn't do things the way that I do them.

He held the baby differently. I cradled her close, showing her my maternal love. He held her facing outward so she would have a world view. He transported her differently. I carried her in my arms from room to room as I tidied up. He placed her in the stroller and rolled her around so that he could put things away and still keep an eye on her. He comforted her differently. I rocked her quietly to calm her; he bounced her. He even fed her differently. I breast-fed her at 2:00 a.m. He bottle-fed her at 2:00 p.m. (Okay, so I can't hold biology against the poor guy.) It's just that it was difficult to accept that someone could relate to Mary in another way. Undoubtedly, I was very insecure, and sharing her was hard. Even with her dad.

Of course, there was the time that I was downstairs in the basement office for a while working on a project. It was Dad's time to watch his little girl. As I reached the top of the steps after finishing my work, he asked, “Where's Mary?”

“What do you mean, where is Mary?” I screamed.

“I thought you had her,” he said nonchalantly. “Don't worry, I'll find her.” He had placed her on the living-room floor for a moment and then inadvertently[12] turned his back. We began our search there. As it turned out, she had crawled over to the floor-length picture window and was hiding behind the drapes. We found her giggling in delight at the birds on the front lawn and at the cars passing by. It was the first time that she had crawled. I seldom placed her on the floor, but Tom liked to give her room to stretch and play. No harm was done, in fact just the opposite. Our baby had reached a new point in her life because my husband, her dad, had let her expand her horizons.

During all those months of pregnancy while I complained, I never imagined how difficult it would be to let her go once she was born. For me, it was the first test of motherhood to let Dad be Dad. To realize that someone else could nurture my child in his own way. And to realize that what he had to give her, I couldn't give.

That is the beauty of parenting. That each mother and each father has a unique contribution. That our babies need the distinctive love and nurture that each one of us has to offer. And it pays off, too. By the time our second child was on the way, Mary was two years old. She and her dad had a wonderful relationship forged by the variety of experiences which they alone had shared.

After our youngest child, Kristi, arrived, I was able to give my husband more freedom and space in his distinctive parenting techniques. I, too, had grown. And, I had learned from his parenting style, even as he had learned from mine. After all, we were a team.

“Well, they're all yours,” I declared one day as I headed for the office.

“Aren't you just a little worried?” he teased.

“No, just remember to check behind the drapes if the baby disappears,” I laughed. “Besides,” I added, “you've got everything under control.”

在我怀第一个孩子的时候，那是一个闷热而冗长的夏季，火热的天气似乎没有丝毫收敛的迹象。我的脚踝肿得高高的，身上总是大汗淋漓。我唯一想做的事情就是赶快把孩子生下来。

“我没法挨到孩子出生的时候了。”我满脸沮丧，愤怒地咆哮着。

我的丈夫深情地安慰我，说宝宝会顺利在预产期出生，到那时，脚踝的肿胀和疼痛自然就会消失，身体也不再那么臃肿沉重，我就可以摆脱负担获得解放了。而我却似乎觉得，孩子仿佛要在我的肚子里永久地待下去。

“那如果孩子喜欢待在肚子里，不打算出来呢？”我说。

“亲爱的，那是不可能的。孩子说不准在你没发觉的时候就出生了呢。”他语气坚定地说道，客观而理性，而我则明显有些失去理智。

后来，直到羊水破裂的那天晚上，我才从震惊中恢复理智，回到现实中来。我们的第一个女儿降生了，足足提前了三个星期。

女儿出生时，我高兴极了。不仅是因为我终于解脱了，可以用双臂把她小小的身体抱在怀里，而且她还是个有一头红发的小美女。尽管那时她才出生几分钟而已，但我就感觉到我和她之间有一种独特的情感，因为她曾经是我身体的一部分。但我当时并没有预料到，要我对她放手，这对我来说有多么艰难。

在看似无限漫长的怀孕的九个月里，宝宝是属于我的，完完全全只属于我自己。她来到我身体里，并依赖我生存下来。随着她在我的肚子里慢慢长大，我的丈夫隔着肚皮能感觉到她在里面踢来踢去，但是更多时候，他只能通过我知晓宝宝在肚子里的一举一动。女儿和我的交流只限于我们两人之间。但是，现在，她已经来到人世，我不得不与其他人，包括她爸爸，一起分享我们的女儿。

当然，这并不是我不信任他。他是一个极富爱心的丈夫和父亲。只是因为他做事情的方式与我不同而已。

他抱孩子的方法与我不同：我紧紧地怀抱着她，让她感受到我满腔的母爱；他总是把她脸朝外地抱着，让她看着这个新奇的世界。他带孩子走动的方式也不同：我会一边收拾屋子，一边把她抱在怀里，在不同的房间里走来走去；而他总是把她放在婴儿车里，推着她四处走，这样他可以空出双手而眼睛仍然盯牢孩子。他抚慰孩子的方式也很特别：我轻轻地摇着她让她安静下来，而他总是让她在他腿上不停地弹跳。甚至连他的喂养方法也不同：我在早上两点喂孩子吃母乳，他在下午两点喂孩子吃奶粉（好吧，也许我不该用男女不同的生理构造来反对这个可怜的家伙）。实际上，我只是很难接受有人能以某种方式与女儿联系在一起，毫无疑问，那是因为我很没有安全感。即使是与她的爸爸分享女儿，我也感到很难。

有一次，我待在地下室的工作间里做点事情，让她爸爸看着孩子。当我做完事情走上楼梯口时，他问我：“女儿在哪里？”

“你什么意思？女儿不是应该和你在一起吗？”我尖叫起来。

“我以为她和你在一起，”他满不在乎地说，“别紧张，我会找到她的。”刚开始的时候，他把女儿放在客厅的地板上玩了一会儿，后来一不注意转过身去时，女儿就不见了。我们从客厅开始找起。原来，是她自己爬向落地窗边，躲到窗帘后面去了。我们找到她时，她正高兴地看着门前草坪上的小鸟，还有马路上驶过的汽车，不停地咯咯笑着。这是她第一次爬动。我很少把她放在地板上，但丈夫却总是喜欢给她更多的空间，让她自己去伸展手脚，尽情玩耍。他的做法并没有害处，相反，还大有好处。正因为我的丈夫，她的爸爸，让她自由地去扩展自己的视野，我们的女儿在她的生活道路上抵达了新的起点。

怀孕的那几个月里，我满腹抱怨，我很难想象，一旦她出生后，让我放手有多么困难。但是，这一次让爸爸照顾女儿的经历，正初次考验了我的母性。我逐渐意识到，别人也可以以他自己的方式来抚养孩子，而且她爸爸能给她的东西恰恰是我所无法给予的。

这就是为人父母的魅力所在。每个母亲和父亲对孩子都有自己独特的贡献，而孩子也需要父母双方各自提供不同的爱和培育。终于，功夫不负有心人，在我怀第二个孩子的时候，我们的女儿已经两岁了，她和爸爸相处得十分愉快。整个家庭其乐融融，因为他们俩分享了很多只属于他们自己的美好经历。

在我们最小的孩子克里斯蒂出生后，我渐渐能给我丈夫更多的自由空间，让他施展他独特的育儿方法。而且，我也变得成熟了，从他身上学到了很多；当然，他也从我这里学到很多。毕竟，我们同属一个“团队”。

“好吧，现在他们都归你了。”有一天，我走向工作室的时候说道。

“你不会有那么一点点担心吗？”他开玩笑地说。

“不会，不过如果孩子不见了，记得去窗帘后面找找。”我大笑起来，又说道，“还有，你已经可以独当一面了，不是吗？”

【美丽语录】

I cannot think of any need in childhood as strong as the need for a father's protection.—Sigmund Freud

我认为，一个孩子对父亲庇护的渴望比任何其他需求都要更强烈。——西格蒙特·弗洛伊德

Romance Is in the Eyes of the Beholder

心中有爱，眼里才有爱

Tina Runge

Life is so very busy. I think at times, we all get lost in the hustle and bustle of everyday life that we forget what it was that made us fall in love with our spouse or our significant other. Thankfully, I remembered.

My husband works hard. Many times his hours are long and his employment usually takes him away from the home front about one quarter of the year. I'm not complaining, mind you, because that was the same job that enabled me to be a stay-at-home mom and pursue my dream of writing. Yes, I'm a mother of three active boys and a published romance author. Naturally you'd think my life is full of romance. It is. My days consist of plotting and arranging the romantic lives of my characters so that the outcome is the proverbial “happily ever after”. I love happily ever afters. This story is one of those.

I've never considered my husband of seventeen years to really be the romantic type. Sweet as he is, he isn't one to make dinner reservations at an exclusive[13] restaurant, or buy me a mushy, lovey-dovey card “just because”. I do get flowers for all the proper occasions and the cards do come then, but is that really romantic? I never considered it to be, especially when the vast majority of the rest of the female population was getting them, too. I had always wished for a little more…

One day, while I was working, several strange “incidences”, for lack of a better word, crept into my mind. I was trying to concentrate on my current work-in-progress but “they” wouldn't leave me alone. “They” weren't any huge revelation or any spectacular plot points I could use for the rancher hero I was working on at the time, either.

They didn't have to do with the elusive[14] heroine I was still trying to get a grasp on. No. These were different, very different. They were about my husband. For some strange reason I couldn't get out of my head the last business trip he went on. He brought me back a pound of Ghirardelli malt balls and the romance novel I'd been meaning to buy. Then there was that fax I got that simply said, I love you. Could those two things fall under the romantic category? I decided they could. They most certainly should.

Other special moments flooded my mind as if a little keeper in my head had opened some “damn of memories”. I remembered, vividly, the time my husband got the kids to bed early. No small feat, let me tell you! I was in the basement scrubbing a baseball uniform, wondering what made me angrier, those coaches who encouraged kids to slide when it was raining and muddy, or the league who purchased the white pants.

When I came up from finishing the chore, a scented bubble bath had been drawn, wine poured and candles lit. Has anyone ever been bathed by their spouse or significant other in an atmosphere like that? I can tell you firsthand that that was romantic! Those white baseball pants were soon forgotten and the coaches all forgiven. Then I fondly remembered another time, when the kids were at Grandma's. My so-called unromantic hubby packed us both a sandwich and we rode bikes to the covered bridge in our town. We sat there, holding hands, eating and watching the geese and ducks. Just the two of us, just “being”.

It hit me, then, as I stared at my computer monitor, the words “Ray loves Tina”, endlessly floating across the screen.The screen saver was something else my sneaky husband had changed once before going out of town. How unfair I'd always been in my thinking. Was my husband romantic? Heavens, yes! I realized I could go on and on with those special moments, all the way back to when we first got married.

You may not think it's romantic for a man to travel on business with a container of deodorant that has his wife's picture taped to the front, or finding Hershey hugs and kisses that had been strategically[15] hidden all over the house because he wants you to know he misses you and is thinking about you while he's gone, but I sure do.

I know it's been said that beauty is in the eye of the beholder[16], but I think the same goes for romance. We all need to look for those special moments. And cherish them! I'm just thankful this romance author finally reflected and realized, again, what a hero she's married to!

生活总是太匆忙。有些时候，我们会迷失在这忙忙碌碌的庸常生活里，甚至遗忘了当初和我们的爱人是如何深深相爱的。幸好，我还记得。

我丈夫的工作很辛苦。他的工作时间总是很长，一年中大约四分之一的时间他都不在家，而在外面奔波忙碌着。当然，我并不是在抱怨，正是因为他的这份工作，才能让我做一个居家母亲，天天待在家里一边照顾孩子们，一边专心写作以实现我的写作梦想。没错，我是三个活泼好动的男孩的母亲，同时我还是一名写爱情小说的作家。很自然地，你会觉得，我在生活中一定经历了很多浪漫的爱情故事。的确如此。我每天的工作就是为我小说里的主人公们设计各种浪漫的情节，安排他们的爱情生活，并最后以俗话所说的“从此幸福地生活在一起”这样的美好结局而收场。我喜欢这种大团圆的结局，接下来我要讲的也是一个这样的故事。

我从未觉得相伴17年的丈夫是一个真正浪漫的人。尽管他对我很好，但他并不会去高级餐馆订餐，也不会给我买写着“只是因为”的那种情意绵绵的浪漫卡片。在一年四季各种节日里，他的确给我送过花，也写过祝福卡片，但是，那就是浪漫吗？我从来没觉得这些就是所谓的浪漫，尤其考虑到大多数女性在节日里都会收到这样的礼物时，更是如此。我总是希望能有更特别一点的东西……

有一天，我正在写作，忽然有几件奇怪的“小事件”偷偷地溜进了我的脑海中。“小事件”，一时我找不到更好的词来形容，暂且就如此称呼它们吧。我努力地想集中精力继续手头的工作，但这些“小事件”却不让我清静。它们并不是什么伟大的发现，也不是什么令人惊叹的小说桥段，可以让我用在当时正在写的小说的农场男主人公身上。

它们跟我正在努力塑造但尚未成型的模糊的主人公没有丝毫关系。它们很特别，非常特别，因为它们关乎于我的丈夫。奇怪的是，丈夫上一次因公出差时做的一些事情总是挥之不去，在我的脑海里时不时地浮现出来。他给我带回1磅哥罗多利麦芽球，还有我一直想买的一本爱情小说。他还在出差途中给我发来了一份简单得不能再简单的传真——“我爱你”。这些能算是浪漫吗？我想应该算吧，毫无疑问，应该算。

我脑子里记忆的大门似乎顿时敞开了，其他一些特别的瞬间也如潮水般奔涌而来。我清晰地记得往日的一幕一幕，它们是如此生动，仿佛就在眼前。那可是一次不小的壮举，让我慢慢说给你听吧。那天，丈夫早早地哄孩子们上床睡觉了。我在地下室一遍又一遍地刷着孩子们的棒球服，心里不免愤愤然嘀咕着：那些教练为什么总是鼓励孩子们在下雨天泥泞的操场上摸爬滚打，让他们频频滑倒；而棒球联赛的组织者怎么会购买白色的棒球裤。

我做完杂活回到房间的时候，香气扑鼻的泡泡浴已经准备好了，周围点着蜡烛，红酒也摆在一旁。有人曾经享受过爱人给你准备的如此温馨的沐浴吗？我可以用我的亲身经历告诉你：那就是浪漫！白色的棒球裤很快就被忘记了，教练们也得到了我的原谅。我记得，还有一次，那时孩子们都在祖母家里。我所说的那个并不浪漫的丈夫，给我俩一人准备了一个三明治，然后我们一起骑车前往小镇上的一座小桥。我们坐在小桥边，手拉着手，吃着三明治，看着河里的鸭子和鹅。只有我们两个人，只是在一起静静地待着。

我回过神来，盯着电脑显示器，一串文字忽然跳了出来——“瑞爱蒂娜”，它不断地在屏幕上晃动飘浮。我被深深地打动了。一定是丈夫出门之前偷偷修改了屏幕保护程序的设置。而我总是沉浸在我自己的思维里，不曾发觉任何蛛丝马迹，这太不公平了。我的丈夫浪漫吗？天哪，这还用问吗？我发现，我可以一遍又一遍不停地回味所有这些美妙瞬间，一直回忆到我们刚刚结婚时的情景。

你可能觉得，丈夫出差时带着的除臭剂外壳上贴着妻子照片，这算不上浪漫；或者你可能觉得，妻子总是时不时在家里这个或那个地方发现丈夫精心藏好的“好时”巧克力，以此来表达他外出时对妻子一刻不停的思念，这也并没什么浪漫可言。但是，这一切，在我看来，就是浪漫，而且十足的浪漫。

心中有美，眼里才能看到美。我想，爱情也是一样的，心中有爱，眼里才能看到爱。我们都需要用心、用眼睛去寻找那些美好的瞬间，并好好珍惜它们。我很庆幸，我这个写爱情小说的作家，最终又一次意识到自己嫁给了一位多好的男主人公！

【美丽语录】

Seize the moments of happiness, love and be loved! That is the only reality in the world, all else is folly.—Leo Tolstoy

抓住每一个快乐的瞬间，去爱与被爱吧！这是世界上唯一的事实，其他一切都是愚蠢的。——列夫·托尔斯泰

A Joy Forever

永远的玫瑰之约

T. Jensen Lacey

John Keats wrote, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” Perennial, enduring love is a thing of beauty, rather like a rose can be.

Every time I catch the scent of a rose, I think of enduring love. Being a freelance[17] journalist, years ago I had the pleasure of interviewing an elderly man. James Charlet had an interesting story, beginning two decades earlier when he lost his beloved wife, who had been a great lover of roses.

So deep was his grief when she died, so enduring was his love, that he asked his church if he could plant roses by the church walkway in his wife's memory. Of course, the priest there said yes.

James started with a few rose bushes. He planted lovely pinks, deep yellows and fragrant reds with names like “Yesterday” and “Golden Chersonese” and “Chrysler Imperial”. The roses grew and flourished[18] under his never-ending care, for he also had retired and had a great deal of time on his hands.

He told me that those few roses didn't seem to be enough; they were insufficient to fully express his love for his wife. He asked the priest if he could plant some more roses; again, the priest said yes.

James planted some different kinds of roses this time: rare burgundies and hard-to-find violet roses, silver roses and hybrid roses created in the memory of others. Roses with names like “The Doctor” and “Alba Celeste” and “Honorable Lady Lindsay”.

Still he was dissatisfied with what he called a paltry outward show of his inner feelings. He again approached the priest, asking if he could use part of the vacant lot next to the church that the church owned. Again, he was told yes.

James planted more roses and then went on to plant roses by the sidewalks up and down and around the entire city block, surrounding the church and grounds. Roses with names like “Red Meidiland” and “Trumpeter” and “Pikes Peak”.

Now, rose bushes numbering in the hundreds are everywhere; the scent of them fills the air, the pied blooms catch the eye and blossoms float on the breeze along with the laughter of the children playing in the church playground. Couples strolling along downtown walk past the roses and instinctively take each other's hand. The altar-guild ladies cut great, fragrant bouquets of roses to decorate the church and altar, filling the interior with the color and perfume of love.

Decades after he began his project to honor his wife's memory, and years after I interviewed him about what he had done, James and I visited that rose garden one afternoon. The roses are tended now by someone hired by the church, as James is no longer able to care for them himself. So old and feeble is he now that his nurse and I half-carried him to the garden, helping him settle in his wheelchair in the midst of the blossoms. We sat under an arbor, one of his favorite places to sit in the hot summers when he'd been more vigorous.

I sat with him there in companionable silence, among the scent of a myriad of rose blossoms. What was it that kept his love going inside him? What did the two of them have, even after one of them had died, that so many of us spend our lives desperately seeking?

It occurred to me then that some people are like prisms[19]: Anyone with a light in them can be near that person and have their light refracted into many different colors, like the colors of the roses around us. Prisms by themselves cannot make light, and light by itself cannot divide into the lovely colors of the rainbow. James Charlet's wife must have been like a prism, being there to magnify and refract her husband's light. He made her complete because she completed him. I thought at that moment how she must be smiling upon him, seeing all these gifts he had planted for her.

As I took his thin, old hand and saw him smile at me a bit sadly, in spite of the lovely midsummer day I found myself hoping that the love I have found is less ethereal than the scent of a rose, that it can endure as James's love has.

To nurture this love so it can endure throughout all our lives, even through the infirmities[20] old age may bring, to care for one another and love one another even beyond the boundary that separates this existence from the next is my hope. Perhaps our love can remain as strong and as sweet as the roses that have endured and bloomed all these years, and be a thing of beauty, a joy forever.

诗人济慈写道：“一件美好的事物会带来永恒的喜悦。”永恒耐久的爱情正是如此，它就是这样一件如玫瑰花般美好的事物。

每一次我闻到玫瑰的芳香，我就会联想到经得起岁月考验的爱情。几年前，我有幸作为自由撰稿人采访了一位名叫詹姆斯·夏洛特的老人。在他身上发生了一个有趣的故事，这个故事大约是从20年前他挚爱的妻子去世时开始的。他那位妻子非常喜爱玫瑰花。

妻子去世后，他悲痛万分，对妻子的爱非但没有丝毫减弱，却更加浓烈持久。于是，他请求教堂让他在教堂过道两旁种上玫瑰，以此来纪念他的妻子。牧师欣然同意了。

他种下了几丛玫瑰，有可爱的粉玫瑰，有深黄玫瑰，还有香气袭人的红玫瑰；玫瑰的名字也五花八门，叫“昨日重现”“金色半岛”“克莱斯勒帝王”等等。这些玫瑰花在他一刻不停的精心照料下长得又快又好，当然，这也是因为他退休了，有的是大把时间来伺弄这些花花草草。

他告诉我说，那几丛玫瑰似乎太少了，不足以表达他对死去的妻子的爱意。他请求牧师让他再多种些玫瑰。牧师又一次同意了。

这次，他种了一些不同品种的玫瑰：稀有的勃艮第，罕见的紫罗兰玫瑰，银色玫瑰，还有各种杂交玫瑰。这些杂交玫瑰通常是用来纪念他人的，从他们的名字就可以看出来，比如“纪念医生”“阿尔巴·赛莱斯特”“尊敬的琳赛女士”等等。

但是，他仍不满意，他觉得这些玫瑰微不足道，并不能完全表达他的内心情感。他又去找牧师，请求牧师让他在教堂旁边那块空地上种满玫瑰。他又一次得到了肯定的答复。

他在空地上种下了更多的玫瑰，后来他继续在路边两侧都种上了玫瑰，最后教堂周边、整个街区都种上了他的玫瑰。玫瑰的品种也更多了，加入了“红色美德兰”“小号手”“皮克峰”等等。

现在，成百上千丛玫瑰遍布每个角落，浓郁的花香弥漫在空中，层层叠叠的各色花朵引人注目。微风吹过，玫瑰花瓣从空中婷婷袅袅地落下，在教堂空地上玩耍的孩子们发出阵阵爽朗的笑声。推着童车在街头散步的夫妇走过玫瑰花丛时，不禁下意识地握紧了对方的手。圣坛会的女士们剪下大把芬芳的玫瑰花束，用来装饰教堂和圣坛。教堂里面立刻充满了各种颜色的玫瑰，散发出阵阵爱的香气。

从他最初开始这项纪念他妻子的盛大工程，几十年已经过去了；而我上次采访他、了解他的故事之后，又过去了好几年。一天下午，我和老人一同来到了玫瑰园。这些玫瑰花现在已经由教堂雇佣专人打理，因为老人再也无法独自料理这些花儿了。现在他已经老了，十分虚弱，我和他的护士几乎是半抬着他进入玫瑰园的。我们在美丽的花丛中帮他坐到轮椅上，然后，我们在一棵大树底下坐了下来。那里曾是他精力尚好时在炎热夏天最爱坐的地方之一。

我陪伴在他的身边，静静地坐着，无数玫瑰花瓣散发出的香气环绕着我们。是什么让爱在他内心持久留存？他们俩之间有什么呢，甚至在其中一方去世之后还永存不息？难道是我们中的很多人孤注一掷、追寻一生的东西？

我忽然想到，有些人就像棱镜一样，本身并不会发光，因此也无法折射出彩虹般绚丽丰富的色彩。但是，当一个内心能发光的人靠近他们时，他们就能把这缕光芒折射成各种不同的颜色，就如我们身边这些玫瑰般五彩斑斓。老人的妻子可能就是一枚棱镜，她总是可以放大、折射她丈夫的光芒。在他成全了她的同时，她也成全了他。我在想，那一刻，她一定看到了老人为她准备的礼物——这所有的玫瑰，她也一定在天堂向着老人微笑吧。

我握着他瘦削枯老的手，他向我微微笑着，眼神里不免有些伤感。尽管那是如此美丽的一个仲夏午后，我发现自己在心里默默祈祷着，但愿我所找到的爱情不要像玫瑰花香那么虚无缥缈，而能像老人的爱情那般持久隽永。

我也希望，我们能精心培育爱情，使其足以延续一生一世，哪怕年老体弱、满身病痛之时也不离弃；关爱彼此，纵然生死相隔，仍能始终不渝。也许，这样的话，我们的爱情，就能和这些玫瑰花一样经久不衰、繁盛绚丽，永远甜蜜、愉悦。

【美丽语录】

Love is the only bow on Life's dark cloud. It is the morning and the evening star.—Robert G. Ingersoll

爱是生活的乌云下唯一的彩虹，是每个昼夜天际的明星。——罗伯特·G.英格索尔

Melody

永不忘却的纪念

Jennifer Koscheski

“Melody asked me to do this for her, and I said I would because I want her to be remembered well. But this is very difficult for me. There were thirteen months between us; she is in my memories as far back as they go, and I don't know how to live in a world without Melody in it.” With these heartbroken words, and in a voice hoarse from weeping, I began my sister's eulogy[21]. For the next twenty minutes, I tried to explain to those in attendance how wonderful, good and worthy of life my sister was, and give them a glimpse of the void her death caused.

By all understanding of the bond, we were good sisters. Until our marriages we slept together, sharing our secrets in whispers and giggles[22] once the lights were out. We played often, fought sometimes and stuck together fiercely in school. We double-dated in high school, and she married first. We each had two sons and two daughters and poured ourselves into motherhood. Though our marriages forced us to live several states apart, we wrote often, and burned the phone lines between us with our calls because sometimes we just had to hear the other's voice.

I thought we knew all there was about being good sisters. Then she was diagnosed with cancer. Eleven months before she died she called and told me the dreadful news. The doctors gave her five years. She was scared, and I said I was, too, and we cried. We were not yet forty: How could we face separation in just five years? I still feel angry and cheated that we didn't get those other four years.

I determined to write her nearly every day and share every bit of the experience with her. I was with her often through the initial treatments, and there was a blissful three months in which no cancer could be found. Then suddenly the cancer returned with a vengeance[23], terrifying in its rapid growth. Her first reaction, when the doctor told her, was to run. She did flee straight to me. We spent a week together praying, talking, crying and laughing. With everything in my soul fighting against the reality of her prognosis, I decided to embrace this horror with her, feeling every emotion, encouraging her in every step. I held her when she cried, and we mourned for the dreams we would never fulfill, the places we would never see together, the weddings she would miss and the grandchildren she would never hold. I promised her everything she asked for. We planned her daughters’ weddings and talked of gifts she wanted her children to have. She listed all her personal belongings, and entrusted their distribution to me. She told me her deepest fears, confessed her shames and regrets, and shared her earnest longing for more time with her kids. During the day, I calmly listened to her, respecting her thoughts, completely awed[24] by her strength and dignity and faith. At night I wept bitterly.

I went to her home for two weeks after her visit, to help prepare for the harsh chemical therapy plan about to be launched against her disease. When the day came for me to leave, my emotions were raw, the emotional intensity of our time together gripping me strongly. I was so afraid she would die during the treatments, and I wasn't nearly ready for it.

Taking her now-thin face in my hands, I whispered, “I don't know what to say.”

Quietly, gently, she whispered back, “There are no more words, Jenn. We've already said them all.”

I held her gently, as long as she could bear the pain of the embrace, trying to memorize for all time what she felt like. I cried the long drive home.

Weeks later the doctors reluctantly told us there was nothing more to be done. Other family members held back the report from Melody, fearful of causing her more pain by taking away all hope.

In simple words, for the morphine had ravaged[25] her senses, I explained it to her. My eyes were shining with tears, my throat closing on the words. Inexplicably, she said, “No tears.” I choked them back, and we made plans for her to go home, where she most wanted to be. Plaintively[26], she told me she was afraid she would be alone at the final moment. I promised her I wouldn't let that happen.

Very early the next morning, I returned to the hospital, so we could be alone. Sitting as close to her as I could, holding her fragile hand, I asked her to please let me cry.

“Why?” she whispered.

“Because I'm going to miss you so much. I don't want you to die.”

Laying my head down on her bed, I wept hot, anguished[27] tears, while she stroked my hair and comforted me in my sorrow. It was an agonizing[28] moment. Later, I again found the strength to walk through it with her, but that morning for those minutes, I leaned on her, and she stood strong for me.

I had to go home. My family needed me, and the inevitable end had no definite date. Our mother stayed with Mel the last few weeks but called me on the last day and said to hurry, that the hospice[29] nurse was sure it would be within hours.

I dropped everything and made the trip as fast as I safely could, praying desperately that she could hang on till I got there. Mom told her I was coming, though she was doubtful Melody understood. Walking in the door of her room, I was weak with relief that I had made it in time. For ninety-eight minutes I talked to my sister, prayed over her, kissed her, sang to her and read aloud all her favorite scriptures. She never spoke, but I know she heard me. The nurse was amazed she hung on for so many hours with a 107-degree fever, only four respirations a minute and almost no blood pressure.

I will always believe she waited for me.

This is the part of sisterhood I'm still learning: going on after a sister is no longer there. The pain and loss are worse than I imagined, and time without her stretches before me in aching loneliness.

I'm at peace in knowing she is with Christ, but as our older sister said bitterly to a well-meaning friend who tried to comfort her at the funeral, “Heaven would have been just as beautiful thirty years from now.”

My memories are indescribably precious. I have no regrets; we wasted no time, faced the dreadful future together, said all the right words, smiled and laughed and cried in complete unison[30], all the way up to the last moment possible. She was a perfect sister.

A few weeks ago her eighteen-year-old daughter, Melissa, called me, sobbing with grief. “Aunt Jenn, I'm afraid everyone is going to forget how wonderful Mama was.” Weeping with her, I promised that wouldn't happen. I won't let her be forgotten.

“梅让我为她致悼辞，她说我肯定愿意，因为我希望人们能好好地记住她。但是，这对我来说非常困难。我们一起度过了她生命中最后的13个月。无论岁月怎样流转，她始终活在我的记忆深处，但我却不知失去了她以后，生活该如何继续。”我的声音因为哭泣而变得沙哑。说着这些令人心碎的话语，我开始为妹妹致悼辞。在接下来的20分钟里，我向在场的人们努力诉说着妹妹有多善良、多美好、多么应该继续活下去，也向他们倾诉妹妹的不幸离世给其他人的生活带来了多么莫大的空虚。

毋庸置疑，我们俩是极要好的姐妹。在结婚前，我们总是窝在一起睡觉；熄灯以后，我们窃窃私语着，分享彼此心中的秘密，有时也会咯咯大笑起来。我们经常一块儿玩，有的时候也会打起架来，但在学校时，我们却总是团结如一人。高中时，我们和各自的男朋友总是一起约会，但是她先结了婚。我们每人各有两儿两女，在孩子们身上我们倾注了所有的母爱。尽管婚姻使我们之间隔着几个州的距离，但我们经常通信，打电话煲电话粥。有的时候，我们打电话也只不过是想听听对方的声音。

我们是真正意义上的好姐妹。后来，她被诊断出患了癌症。从她打电话告诉我这个噩耗到她去世，中间仅仅隔了11个月。当时，医生告诉她存活期大概只有5年。她很恐惧，我说我也很害怕，两人大哭起来。那时我们还未满40岁：让我们如何面对5年之后残酷的生死别离？至今，我仍然对她仅活了一年而不是医生所说的5年耿耿于怀，感觉就像被欺骗了一样。

我下定决心每天给她写信，分享她的点滴感受和经历。在最初的治疗阶段，我经常陪着她。在大约三个月的时间里，很幸运地，没有在她体内发现癌细胞。然而，之后癌细胞突然卷土重来，并以骇人的速度迅速攀升。当医生告诉她这个消息时，她的第一反应是拔腿就跑，径直逃到我家中。在一个星期的时间里，我们待在一起，祈祷，聊天，哭泣，欢笑。尽管我内心深处始终难以接受她被诊断患有癌症这一事实，但我决定和她一起面对恐怖的病魔，去感受她的每一丝情感，在治疗的每个阶段给她鼓励。当她哭泣的时候，我会抱紧她；想起那些永远无法实现的梦想，那些无法一同前往的地方，那些她将会错过的婚礼，还有她永远无法拥抱的孙子孙女们，我们一起连声哀叹，唏嘘不已。我答应了她所要求的每件事。我们一起策划了她女儿们的婚礼，也讨论了她想要送给子女们的礼物。她列出了所有的个人财物，并委托我进行分配。她向我倾诉内心最深处的恐惧，坦白她的耻辱与悔恨，分享她最真诚的渴望——与孩子们再多待一些时日。白天，我平静地听她诉说。我尊重她的想法，并被她的坚强、尊严和信念完全折服。晚上的时候，我总是悲伤地流泪。

在她来我家住了一星期后，我去她家待了两个星期，帮她即将接受的严酷化疗做些准备。离开她的那天，我们之间真挚的感情，以及我们在一起度过的美好时光，时时萦绕在我心头。她在治疗过程中随时都可能死去，对此，我并没有做好准备。我感到异常的恐惧。

我捧着她现在消瘦的脸，在她耳边轻轻说：“我不知道该说点什么。”

她很平静，轻声回答道：“简，不用说了。我们已经把要说的都说过了。”

我生怕我的拥抱弄疼了她，便很轻柔地抱着她，试图努力记住她每一个时刻的样子。那一次，我几乎是一路哭着开车回家的。

又过了几个星期，医生很不情愿地告知我们，他们已经尽力了。家人们向梅隐瞒了病情，因为他们害怕没有了希望，她会更加痛苦。

吗啡的药力破坏了她的感官，她总是昏昏沉沉的。我用寥寥数语向她说明了真相。我的双眼闪着晶莹的泪光，我的喉咙因为哽咽而几乎说不出话来。她含含糊糊地说道：“别哭。”我努力抑制住自己，不让眼泪流下来。我们计划把她送回家，送回她现在最想去的地方。她很直白地告诉我说，她害怕在最后时刻来临时孤身一人。我向她保证，我会一直陪伴在她身边。

第二天清晨，很早的时候我就回到了医院，这样，我们就能独处一段时间。我握着她苍白无力的手，尽量坐得离她近一些。我请求她允许我哭一会儿。

“为什么？”她轻声地问。

“因为我会非常想念你。我不希望你死。”

我把头枕在她的床上，痛苦的热泪夺眶而出。她轻轻抚摸着我的头发，安慰着心中无比悲痛的我。那是一个异常痛苦的时刻。而后，我又重新找回了陪她一起度过难关的勇气。但是，在那几分钟里，我依偎着她，她成了我坚强的精神支柱。

后来，因为家人需要我，我不得不赶回家去。毕竟，虽然结局不可避免，但最终时间并不确定。在最后几个星期里，母亲陪伴在妹妹身边。最后一天，母亲打电话给我，让我尽快赶到，因为负责临终关怀的护士肯定她剩下的时间不多了，几个小时而已。

我立刻扔下一切，以能保证安全的最快速度飞奔过去，绝望地祈祷她能坚持下去直到我赶到。尽管并不确定她是否能听懂，但是母亲告诉她，我来了。我快步走进病房，能够及时赶到让我放松下来，也让我倍感虚弱。在这98分钟的时间里，我跟她说话，为她祈祷，亲吻她，为她歌唱，大声朗读她最喜爱的文字。她一言不发，但我知道她听得见。护士很惊讶，她居然在发着107度的高烧、一分钟仅呼吸4次，而且几乎没有血压的情况下坚持了那么久。

我总觉得那是因为她在等我。

好姐妹去世后如何继续生活，这是我在姐妹感情方面仍需学习的崭新一课。那种痛苦和失落远比我想象的要糟糕得多。人生的漫漫长路没有她的陪伴，徒留我一人在痛苦中孤独前行。

她此刻与上帝同在，对这一点我感到很欣慰。葬礼上，一位好心的朋友想要安慰我们的大姐，大姐伤心地说：“从现在开始，往后的30年里，天堂将会因为有了梅而始终美丽。”

我的回忆弥足珍贵。我没有任何遗憾；我们没有浪费时间，曾一起面对可怕的明天，说完了所有该说的话，不约而同地放声大笑、失声痛哭，一直到那最后一刻。她是我最好的姐妹。

几个星期前，她18岁的女儿梅丽莎打电话给我。在电话那头，她伤心地哭了起来。“简姨，恐怕现在每个人都已经开始忘记妈妈有多好了。”我忍不住和她一起流泪。我向她承诺过她担心的事不会发生，因为我永远不会将她遗忘。

【美丽语录】

Life is a game and true love is a trophy. —Rufus Wainwright

如果人生是一场比赛，那么真爱就是这场比赛的奖品。——鲁弗斯·温赖特