母親是不會哭的。我想，我哭的時候在她眼裡是不是也是這個樣子。
我拚命回想過去當我蹭破膝蓋、碰傷腳趾時她對我說的安慰話，那種時候她總是知道該說什麼。可是在這個淚眼婆娑的時刻，我實在太沒用，找不到一句情深意濃的話語。
“好了，媽媽，”我伸過手去輕輕撫摸她的頭發，結結巴巴地說，“我們其實根本不需要那些小甜餅，那裡有好多吃的東西。別哭了，沒事，真的。”
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我的話儘管自己聽來也覺得蒼白無力，卻讓母親坐了起來。她擦了擦雙眼，一絲微笑在她滿是淚痕的臉上綻開。我也不好意思地笑了笑，然後她就把我拉到懷裡。
我們再沒有說話，隻是默默地擁抱了很久很久。通常我們擁抱一會兒就會鬆開，但這次，我決定，也許，我會多堅持那麼一會兒。
mother’s desk
母親的書桌
I am sit ting at my mother’s desk, a mahogany1 sec re tary with a writing leaf that folds down to reveal2 rows of cubbyholes3 and tiny draw ers---- even a slid ing se cret compartment. I’ve loved it since I was just tall enough to see above the leaf as Mother sat do ing letters. Stand ing by her chair, star ing at the ink bottle, pens, and smooth white paper, I de cid edthat the act of writ ing must be the most de light ful thing in the world.
Years later, during her final illness, Moth er re served various items for my sis ter and brother. “But the desk,”she’d repeat, “is for Elizabeth.”I sensed Moth er’s com mu ni cat ing through this gift. It was the com mu ni ca tion I’d craved for 50 years.
My mother was brought up in the Vic to ri an be lief that emotions were private. Nice people said only nice thing. I never saw her angry and never saw her cry. I knew she loved me; she ex pressed it in action. But as a teen ag er I yearned4 for heart-to-heart talks be tween mother and daughter.
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