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Night after night, she came to tuck me in, even long after my childhood years.
在我的童年时期，很长一段时间里，每个夜里，母亲总习惯来为我掖住被角。
Following her longstanding custom, she’d lean down and push my long hair out of the way, then kiss my forehead.
撩开我的长头发，亲吻我的额头。
I don’t remember when it first started annoying me—her hands pushing my hair that way.
不记得从何时起，我开始讨厌她用手拨开我的头发。
But it did annoy me, for they felt work-worn and rough against my young skin.
这确实很让我恼火，因为母亲粗糙的双手让我感觉自己幼滑的肌肤在受到伤害。
Finally, one night, I shouted out at her, “Don’t do that anymore—your hands are too rough!”
终于，一天晚上，我冲她嚷道：“别再这样了——你的手太粗糙了！”
She didn’t say anything in reply.
她什么也没说。
But never again did my mother close out my day with that familiar expression of her love.
但母亲再也没有像这样对我表达她的爱。
Time after time, with the passing years, my thoughts returned to that night.
一次又一次，随着岁月的流逝，我的思绪又回到了那个晚上。
By then I missed my mother’s hands, missed her goodnight kiss on my forehead.
我想念那时母亲的手，想念她晚上留在我额头上的亲吻。
Sometimes the incident seemed very close, sometimes far away.
有时这幕情景似乎很近，有时又似乎很遥远。
But always it lurked, in the back of my mind.
但它总是埋藏在我心底，时常浮现在我的脑海里。
Well, the years have passed, and I’m not a little girl anymore.
多年之后，我不再是昨天的那个小女孩了。
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.
但是现在75岁的母亲仍旧用她那双粗糙的双手照顾着家人和我。
She’s been our doctor, reaching into a medicine cabinet for the remedy to calm a young girl’s stomach or soothe the boy’s scraped knee.
母亲曾是我们的医生，她可以从容冷静地从医药箱拿出胃药，治好小女孩的胃痛或给小男孩擦伤的膝盖上敷药。
She cooks the best fried chicken in the world,gets stains out of blue jeans like I never could.
她烧的炸鸡是世界上最美味的,也可以弄干净我怎么都不能洗干净的蓝色牛仔裤。
Now, my own children are grown and gone.
现在，我的孩子已经长大了，离开了。
Mom no longer has Dad, and on special occasions, I find myself drawn next door to spend the night with her.
父亲也离开母亲去了天堂，在特殊的节日里，我经常会陪母亲度过。
So it was late on Thanksgiving Eve, as I slept in the bedroom of my youth, a familiar hand hesitantly ran across my face to brush the hair from my forehead.
所以在这个感恩节前夕，我睡在我小时候睡过的卧室里，感觉到一只那么熟悉的手熟练地梳理我前额上的头发。
Then a kiss, ever so gently, touched my brow.
然后轻轻落下一个吻，永远这样温柔，抚摸我的眉毛。
In my memory, for the thousandth time, I recalled the night my young voice complained, “Don’t do that anymore—your hands are too rough!”
在记忆中，我曾无数次回想起那晚我年幼的抱怨声：“别再这样了——你的手太粗糙了！”
Catching Mom’s hand in hand, I blurted out how sorry I was for that night.
我一把抓住母亲的手，脱口而出：“我多么后悔那天晚上对您讲过的话。”
I thought she’d remember, as I did. But Mom didn’t know what I was talking about.
我以为她和我一样一直记得。但母亲不知道我在说什么。
She had forgotten—and forgiven—long ago.
她很久以前就忘了，就已经原谅了我。
That night, I fell asleep with a new appreciation for my gentle mother and her caring hands.
那天晚上，我睡着了，我对妈妈那双温柔而体贴的双手有了一种新的感激之情。
And the guilt that I had carried around for so long was nowhere to be found.
而这么多年来，压在我心头的负罪感，也突然无处可寻。
