母亲的书桌

作者：Elizabeth Sherril 

我坐在母亲的书桌旁，这是一张桌面可折叠的红木写字台，活动桌面下有一排排小书橱和几个小抽屉，甚至还有个暗格。自我长到桌面那么高时心里就非常喜欢它。那时每当母亲坐在那里写信，我就站在椅子边，盯着书桌上的墨水呀，钢笔呀，光滑的白纸呀，心想写字这个动作肯定是世间最愉悦的。

几年后，母亲病了，她把一些物品留给了哥哥和姐姐。“但那张书桌，”她多次说，“是给依丽莎白的。”我感觉到母亲和书桌有着一种心的交流，这种交流我渴望了50年。

我的母亲在维多利亚式的信念中长大，认为情感是隐秘的。有着良好教养的人只呈现美好的一面。我从没见过她生气，从没见过她哭泣。我知道她爱我----通过她的行动。但一个十来岁的少女渴望的却是母女间心与心的交流。

然而这种交流从没有过，我们间仿佛有着难以逾越的鸿沟。我太“情绪化”，她却“深藏不露”。她愿意接受这种没有心之交流的母女关系，我不能。

长大后，我也有了自己的家，也接受了我们之间这种不远不近的母女关系。我爱她，感激她给我一个和谐的家。原谅我，我写道，为我曾经的偏激。我小心翼翼的请求她以她愿意选择的方式来原谅我。

把信寄出后，焦急地等待她的回信。没等到。

焦急变成失望，继而是听任，平淡。我甚至不敢确定信寄到了没，只记得我写了。我不再拼命地要她变成一个不是她自我的人了。在她生命中的最后15年，我们就这样享受着我们间的关系----平淡却又亲密而愉悦。

现在这张书桌告诉我她很高兴我选择了文字这个工作，虽然她从没亲口这样说过。

在我们把卧室改装成书房的那些日子，那张书桌在阁楼里放了将近一年。当我把它拿下来时，上面落满了灰尘。爱惜的擦拭着里面的抽屉和小书橱，拉出暗格，我发现了里面的一些东西：一张我父亲的照片，我们兄妹结婚时的公告，还有一张折了又折的回信。

给我回信，我在信中说，以任何你愿意选择的方式。母亲，你总是选择了行动，而不是言语。

My Mother’s Desk

             Written by Elizabeth Sherrill

I've loved my mother's desk since I was just tall enough to sit above the top of it mother sat writing letters. Standing by her chair, looking at the ink bottle, pens, and white paper, I decided that the act of writing must be a most be a most wonderful thing in the world.

Years later, during her final illness, mother kept different things for my sister and brother."But the desk," she said again "is for Elizabeth."

I never saw her angry, never saw her cry. I knew she loved me; she showed it action. But as a young girl. I wanted to have heart-to-heart talks between mother and daughter.

They never happened. And a gulf opened between us. I was "too emotional (易动感的)". But she lived "on the surface (表面)".

As years passed and I had my own family . I loved my mother and thanked her for our happy family. I wrote to her in careful words and asked her to let me know in any way she chose that she did forgive me.

My hope turned to disappointment, then little interest and, finally, peace-it seemed that nothing happened. I couldn't be sure that the letter had even got to mother. I only knew that I had written it, and I could stop trying to make her into someone she was not.

But the present of her desk told me, as she'd never been able to, that she was pleased that writing was my chosen work. I cleaned the desk carefully and found some papers inside-a photo of my father and a one-page letter, folded and refolded many times. It was my letter.

"In any way you choose, mother, you always chose the act that speaks louder than words."