夜復一夜，她總是來幫我來蓋被子，即使我早已長大。這是媽媽的長期習慣，她總是彎下身來，撥開我的長發，在我的額上一吻。
I don't remember when it first started annoying me —— her hands pushing my hair that way. But it did annoy me, for they felt work-worn and rough against my young skin. Finally, one night, I lashed out at her: "Don't do that anymore —— your hands are too rough!" She didn't say anything in reply. But never again did my mother close out my day with that familiar expression of her love. Lying awake long afterward, my words haunted me. But pride stifled my conscience, and I didn't tell her I was sorry.
我不記得從何時起，她撥開我的頭發令我非常不耐煩。但的確，我討厭她長期操勞、粗糙的手摩擦我細嫩的皮膚。最后，一天晚上，我沖她叫： “別再這樣了——你的手太粗糙了!”她什么也沒說。但媽媽再也沒有象這樣對我表達她的愛。直到很久以后，我還是常想起我的那些話。但自尊占了上風，我沒有告訴她我很后悔。
Time after time, with the passing years, my thoughts returned to that night. By then I missed my mother's hands, missed her goodnight kiss upon my forehead. Sometimes the incident seemed very close, sometimes far away. But always it lurked, hauntingly, in the back of my mind.
時光流逝，我又想到那個晚上。那時我想念我媽媽的手，想念她晚上在我額上的一吻。有時這幕情景似乎很近，有時又似乎很遙遠。但它總是潛伏著，時常浮現，出現在我意識中。
Well, the years have passed, and I'm not a little girl anymore. Mom is in her mid-seventies, and those hands I once thought to be so rough are still doing things for me and my family. She's been our doctor, reaching into a medicine cabinet for the remedy to calm a young girl's stomach or soothe a boy's scraped knee. She cooks the best fried chicken in the world…… gets stains out of blue jeans like I never could……and still insists on dishing out ice cream at any hour of the day or night.
一年年過去，我也不再是一個小女孩，媽媽也有70多歲了。那雙我認為很粗糙的手依然為我和我家庭做著事。她是我家的醫生，為我女兒在藥櫥里找胃藥或在我兒子擦傷的膝蓋上敷藥。她能燒出世界上最美味的雞…… 將牛仔褲弄干凈而我卻永遠不能……而且可以在任何時候盛出冰激凌。
Through the years, my mother's hands have put in countless hours of toil, and most of hers were before automatic washers!
這么多年來，媽媽的手做了多少家務!而且在自動洗衣機出現以前她已經操勞了絕大多數時間。
Now, my own children are grown and gone. Mom no longer has Dad, and on special occasions, I find myself drawn next door to spend the night with her. So it was that late on Thanksgiving Eve, as I drifted into sleep in the bedroom of my youth, a familiar hand hesitantly stole across my face to brush the hair from my forehead. Then a kiss, ever so gently, touched my brow.
現在，我的孩子都已經長大，離開了家。爸爸去世了，有些時候，我睡在媽媽的隔壁房間。一次感恩節前夕的深夜，我睡在年輕時的臥室里，一只熟悉的手有些猶豫地、悄悄地略過我的臉，從我額頭上撥開頭發，然后一個吻，輕輕地印在我的眉毛上。
In my memory, for the thousandth time, I recalled the night my surly young voice complained: "Don't do that anymore —— your hands are too rough!" Catching Mom's hand in hand, I blurted out how sorry I was for that night. I thought she'd remember, as I did. But Mom didn't know what I was talking about. She had forgotten —— and forgiven —— long ago.
在我的記憶中，無數次，想起那晚我粗暴、年青的聲音：“別再這樣了——你的手太粗糙了!”抓住媽媽的手，我沖口而出因為那晚，我是多么后悔。我以為她想起來了，象我一樣。但媽媽不知道我在說些什么。她已經在很久以前就忘了這事，并早就原諒了我。
That night, I fell asleep with a new appreciation for my gentle mother and her caring hands. And the guilt I had carried around for so long was nowhere to be found.
那晚，我帶著對溫柔母親和體貼雙手的感激入睡。這許多年來我的負罪感已經消失無蹤。
