本帖最后由 ヮ成熟、羙° 于 2013-8-25 20:19 编辑
所有的花都美丽
荷叶/译
我在一个小镇上长大，那里走十分钟就到学校，那时，离现在并不久远，孩子们可以回家吃饭，会发现妈妈在等着他们。
那时，我从没想过这是一种奢侈，尽管现在肯定这样认为。我认为妈妈是想当然的做三明治的人，欣赏我指甲彩绘的人，监视我做作业的人。我从没质疑过，这样一个聪明智慧抱负远大的人，在我出生以前，她也有过自己的事业，最终会回归母亲这种职业，把初中阶段的每个午餐时间与我一起度过。
我只知道中午铃声一响，我就会气喘吁吁地跑回家。妈妈总是站在楼梯口，向下微笑着，她的表情表明在她心里我是唯一重要的。对此，我从不感激。
总是回忆那个时候的几种声音：妈妈茶壶的高音嘶嘶声，地下室里洗衣机的轰鸣，当我的狗蹦蹦跳跳下楼来迎接我时，它的标牌的叮当声。我们那时的生活没有现在弥漫整个生活的分区分片的时间安排。
三年级时的一个午休让我终生难忘。在校剧中，我被选来扮演公主，几周来，妈妈一直不辞辛苦地陪我演练台词。但不管在家里我表演得多么轻松，一上台，我却一句话也想不起来。
最后，老师把我拉到一边。她解释道她已把戏剧的旁白写了出来，要求我更换角色。老师虽然和颜悦色，但我仍有刺痛感，尤其是看到自己的角色给了另一个女孩。
那天回家吃午饭时，我没有告诉妈妈学校里发生的一切。但是妈妈感觉到了我的不安，她没有建议继续练台词，而是问我是否想去院子里散散步。
那是一个晴好的春日，玫瑰花藤在棚架上开始泛青。在那棵大榆树下，可以看到成片的黄色花朵突然之间钻出了草丛，犹如一个画家在他的风景画上涂上了几抹金色。
我看着妈妈不经意地在一丛蒲公英旁俯下身去，她说：“我想我应该把这些杂草全部除掉。”说着，她连根拔起了一朵花。“此后，我们的花园里就只剩玫瑰了。”
妈妈一脸严肃地看着我。是的，每朵花都以自己的方式给人带来快乐，不是吗？她若有所思地问我，我点着头，很高兴自己说服了妈妈，人也一样，妈妈接着说，不是每个人都可以去当公主，那没什么丢脸的。
她已猜到了我的痛苦，我感到很放松，一边告诉她发生的一切，一边放声大哭。她舒心地笑着听我倾诉。
但你会是个漂亮的解说员，妈妈说，她提醒着我是多么乐意给她朗读故事。解说的角色一点也不比公主逊色。
接下来的几周里，在妈妈不断的鼓励下，我学会了以这个角色而自豪。午餐时间用来读台词和讨论我要穿的服饰。
演出的那天晚上，在后台我很紧张。演出前几分钟，老师走过来，说你妈妈让我把这个给你，说着，递给我一朵蒲公英花。花的边缘已经卷曲，花从茎上耷拉下来。但是一看到这朵花，知道妈妈就在外面，想到我们午餐的谈话，这一切都使我自豪。
演出结束后，我把这朵塞在戏装围裙里的小花带回家。妈妈把它用纸巾包上，夹在了一本字典里。一边做一边笑着，世界上大概只有我们会收藏这样一朵难看的草花。
我经常回顾我们在一起的午餐时间，沐浴在温柔的午日阳光下。那是我少年时代的逗号和顿号。它告诉我品味生活，不是预制好的日有所增，而是在日常的常规中不经意地与所爱的人一起分享的一个个很小的快乐。在花生黄油三明治和巧克力薯条曲奇饼中，我体会到了，爱，最首要的是，在一起做小事。
几个月前，妈妈来看我。我请了一天假，请她吃饭。饭店里熙熙攘攘，许多生意人在做着交易，不时地看着手表。我和已经退休的妈妈坐在这群人中间。从妈妈的脸上可以看出，她很留恋工作时的节奏。
我说，妈，我小时候你在家里一定会觉得极度无聊吧。
无聊？家务事很无聊，但你可不无聊。
我不相信她的话，所以我坚持说，孩子肯定没有工作富有刺激性。
妈妈说，工作是有刺激性，很高兴她曾经有过工作。可工作就像一个没充气的气球，你只有不断充气它才会保持膨胀。而孩子是一粒种子，你给它浇水，尽心哺育它，它就会完全靠自己长成一朵美丽的花。
附：原文
I grew up in a small town where the elementary school was a ten-minute walk from my house and in an age, not so long ago, when children could go home for lunch and find their mothers waiting.
At the time, I did not consider this a luxury , although today it certainly would be. I took it for granted that mothers were the sandwich-makers, the finger-painting appreciators and the homework monitors. I never questioned that this ambitious, intelligent woman, who had had a career before I was born and would eventually return to a career, would spend almost every lunch hour throughout my elementary school years just with me.
I only knew that when the noon bell rang, I would race breathlessly home. My mother would be standing at the top of the stairs, smiling down at me with a look that suggested I was the only important thing she had on her mind. For this, I am forever grateful.
Some sounds bring it all back: the high-pitched squeal of my mother’s teakettle, the rumble of the washing machine in the basement, the jangle of my dog’s license tags as she bounded down the stairs to greet me. Our time together seemed devoid of the gerrymandered schedules that now pervade my life.
One lunchtime when I was in the third grade will stay with me always. I had been picked to be the princess in the school play, and for weeks my mother had painstakingly rehearsed my lines with me. But no matter how easily I delivered them at home, as soon as I stepped onstage, every word disappeared from my head.
Finally, my teacher took me aside. She explained that she had written a narrator’s part to the play, and asked me to switch roles. Her words, kindly delivered, still stung, especially when I saw my part go to another girl.
I didn’t tell my mother what had happened when I went home for lunch that day. But she sensed my unease, and instead of suggesting we practice my lines, she asked if I wanted to walk in the yard.
It was a lovely spring day and the rose vine on the trellis was turning green. Under the huge elm trees, we could see yellow dandelions popping through the grass in bunches, as if a painter had touched our landscape with dabs of gold.
I watched my mother casually bend down by one of the clumps, I think I’m going to dig up all these weeds, she said, yanking a blossom up by its roots. From now on, we’ll have only roses in this garden.
But I like dandelions, I protested. All flowers are beautiful even dandelions.
My mother looked at me seriously. Yes, every flower gives pleasure in its own way, doesn’t it? She asked thoughtfully. I nodded, pleased that I had won her over . And that is true of people too, she added. Not everyone can be a princess, but there is no shame in that.
Relieved that she had guessed my pain, I started to cry as I told her what had happened. She listened and smiled reassuringly .
But you will be a beautiful narrator, she said, reminding me of how much I loved to read stories aloud to her.The narrator’s part is every bit as important as the part of the princess.
Over the next few weeks, with her constant encouragement, I learned to take pride in the role. Lunchtimes were spent reading over my lines and talking about what I would wear.
Backstage the night of the performance, I felt nervous. A few minutes before the play, my teacher came over to me. Your mother asked me to give this to you, she said, handing me a dandelion. Its edges were already beginning to curl and it flopped lazily from its stem. But just looking at it, knowing my mother was out there and thinking of our lunchtime talk, made me proud.
After the play, I took home the flower I had stuffed in the apron of my costume. My mother pressed it between two sheets of paper toweling in a dictionary, laughing as she did it that we were perhaps the only people who would press such a sorry-looking weed.
I often look back on our lunchtimes together, bathed in the soft midday light. They were the commas in my childhood, the pauses that told me life is not savored in pre-measured increments , but in the sum of daily rituals and small pleasures we casually share with loved ones. Over peanut-butter sandwiches and chocolate-chip cookies, I learned that love, first and foremost, means being there for the little things.
A few months ago, my mother came to visit. I took off a day from work and treated her to lunch. The restaurant bustled with noontime activity as businesspeople made deals and glanced at their watches. In the middle of all this sat my mother, now retired, and I. From her face I could see that she relished the pace of the work world.
Mom, you must have been terribly bored staying at home when I was a child, I said.
Bored? Housework is boring. But you were never boring.
I didn’t believe her so I pressed. Surely children are not as stimulating as a career.
A career is stimulating, she said. I’m glad I had one. But a career is like an open balloon. It remains inflated only as long as you keep pumping. A child is a seed. You water it. You care for it the best you can. And then it grows all by itself into a beautiful flower. | 
发表于 2013-8-24 07:11:03
QQ空间
腾讯微博
腾讯朋友
转播
分享
收藏
发表于 2013-8-24 07:36:51
