English Original
"Don't put any onions in the salad," she reminds me. "You know how Daddy hates onions."
This time I can't answer.
I just keep cutting. Chopping. Tearing. If only I could chop away the years. Shred the age from my mother's face and hands.
My mother had been beautiful. She still is. In fact, my mother is still everything she has been, just a bit forgetful. I try to convince myself that's all that it is, and if she really concentrated, she would not repeat herself so much. There isn't anything wrong with her.
I cut off the end of the cucumber and rub it against the stalk to take away the bitterness. The white juice oozes out the sides. Wouldn't it be nice if all unpleasant situations could be so easily remedied? Cut and rub. This is a trick I have learned from my mother, along with a trillion other things: cooking, sewing, dating, laughing, thinking. I learned how to grow up. I learned the art of sorting through emotions.
And I learned that when my mother was around, I never had to be afraid.
So why am I afraid now?
I study my mother's hands. Her nails are no longer a bright red, but painted a light pink, almost no color at all. And as I stare at them, I realize I am no longer looking at those hands but feeling them as they shaped my youth. Hands that packed a thousand lunches and wiped a million tears off my cheeks. Hands that tucked confidence into each day of my life.
I turn away and throw the cucumber into the bowl. And then it hits me. My hands have grown into those of my mother's.
Hands that have cooked uneaten meals, held my own daughter's frightened fingers on the first day of school and dried tears off her face.
I grow lighthearted. I can feel my mother kiss me goodnight, check to see if the window is locked, then blow another kiss from the doorway. Then I am my mother, blowing that same kiss to Anna off that same palm.
Outside everything is still. Shadows fall among the trees, shaped like pieces of a puzzle.
中文翻译
“沙拉里一点洋葱也不要放，”她提醒我，“你知道你爸爸有多讨厌洋葱。”
这次我没有回答。
我只是不停地切着、剁着、流着泪。要是我能把这些年流逝的时间一扫而光就好了。将母亲脸上、手上的岁月沧桑抚平。
母亲一直都很漂亮。现在也是。实际上，母亲基本没变，只是有点健忘。我试着说服自己，就是这点问题，如果她真能集中精力，就不会这么一遍遍地唠叨了。她并没有什么毛病。
我切下黄瓜的一端，用它在黄瓜上摩擦以消除苦味。白色的汁液从边上渗出来。如果所有的不快都能这么容易地解决，这不是太好了吗？切下来，然后摩擦。这是我从母亲那里学来的窍门，除了这个，还有数不清的事情：做饭，缝纫、约会、笑、思考。我学会了如何长大，学会了处理感情的艺术。
而且我知道，只要母亲在旁边，没有什么东西可以让我害怕。
那么，现在我为什么害怕呢？
我仔细端详母亲的手。她的指甲不再是鲜红色的了，但却涂成了淡粉色，那颜色淡得几乎没有。在我端详这双手的时候，我发现自己不再是看这双手，而是在感觉这双塑造我青春的手。这是一双为我装过成千上万次午餐，无数次从我的脸颊擦去泪水的手，是一双在我生命中的每一天都给我信心的手。
我转过身把黄瓜扔进碗里。然后我突然心中一动。 我的手已经长成了母亲那样。
这双手曾做了多少顿没有吃的饭，曾在女儿上学的头一天握着她受惊的手指，擦干她脸上的泪水。
我的心情舒畅起来。我能感觉到母亲吻我，向我道晚安，检查窗户是否关严，然后在门口又给我一个飞吻。然后，我变成了我的妈妈，用同一个手掌也给了安娜一个飞吻。
屋外一切如旧。树影朦胧，如同一个迷。