橘香飄飄，情意切切

Death， and the notion of aging， has always hung over me like a heavy cloud. I have sought ways of avoiding the topic. But here I find myself visiting my mother， recently confined to a 1)home. All around me， I hear death 2)hissing through the 3)clang of 4)bedpans and squeals of wheelchairs， through the endless 5)drone of 6)catatonic dining companions. Amid the vacant eyes of childlike faces， the tired bodies 7)draped before the dinner trays， my mother sits facing me. She glances at the gift of oranges I have brought her and nods her approval.

I have come 3，000 miles to be with her， but silence forms a wall between us now. 8)Advanced 9)Parkinson’s has already claimed her voice. Her legs， long withered，10)dangle uselessly. I wheel her into her small room， still 11)stupefied by the disease that chains us both to these white walls away from life.

My mother’s eyes are luminous， glistened pearls. Once they flashed 12)indignantly at the thought of being in a nursing home， then accusingly， then 13)beseechingly. Now they simply look at me with 14)resignation. Sometimes they stare into a far off place.

I watch her helplessly as the minutes tick by. My mind races to fill the space taken up by silence. I think: if only she had been diagnosed earlier， if only I were not so far away. Then hope， not guilt， would be a visitor. I remember the warmth of her back when she carried me， my small arms 15)wrapped around her like a shawl. How， when I was red with fever， she rocked my 16)blistered body until I fell asleep. The hot nights on the rooftops of Kowloon eating watermelon seeds and watching the 17)neon lights twinkling in the streets below. The first days in America when I clung to her like a shadow. The dark times， too， when I 18)cowered in a corner before her 19)wrath. These thoughts I hold onto like photographs in an album， stilled images of the mother I no longer have access to.

She points a 20)gnarled finger at the orange I left on her table. I peel it carefully， glad to have something to do. A 21)spray of 22)citrus fills the air and her eyes widen like a child anticipating sweets. I hand her a slice， which she grasps unsteadily. She brings it23)painstakingly to her mouth and sucks with soft 24)smacks. I eat my slice too， squeezing the little25)beads of juice with my teeth until the flavor bursts over my tongue like a rain shower.

Oranges were always around in our house when I grew up. They cleansed the 26)palate after every dinner; topped 27)pomelos on New Year’s28)altars， were the calling cards of visitors who always brought the fruit as a gift to the host. To me they were heavy sacks of obligation during holidays and weekends， when my mother and I29)wended our way through 30)tenement buildings to visit fellow immigrants from China. The tables were 31)littered with 32)melon seeds and orange 33)peels as I waited impatiently while my mother and her friends chatted; conversations I found hard to relate to， preferring instead to bury my head in a34)Nancy Drew book while they reminisced about the old village.

Now this bright leather-skinned fruit is the only bridge between us. We eagerly suck the memories the 35)piquant flavor evokes. The 36)tart 37)vapors tickle our nostrils. I can see from my mother’s 38)twitch of a smile that she remembers， too. She chews slowly， savoring each bite， as if the thoughts will fade away as soon as the orange is eaten and more slices of her life will peel away.

We finish the whole orange. She 39)belches in satisfaction. I wipe her chin; then we sit and gaze at each other. There are so many words that will never get spoken; dreams that will stay unfulfilled; regrets that are etched in our skins like 40)birthmarks. But in this moment it does not matter what I want her to be， what she used to be， or what I fear she is becoming. There is only the room， the faint scent of oranges， and us， breathing in unison. We sit and breathe together. In this moment is the whole of our lives.

一直以來，“死亡”、“衰老”這些念頭就如陰霾一般籠罩在我的頭上。我千方百計回避這個話題。然而，此刻，我在探望最近困臥老人院的母親，再也難以逃避了。在這里，死神在我耳邊嘶嘶鳴響——便盆的叮當聲，輪椅的刺耳吱嘎聲，還有那些緊張兮兮的飯友們沒完沒了的嗡嗡聲。那些老人面帶稚氣、眼神空洞，疲倦的身軀在碟碟盆盆前像窗簾一樣垂著，在他們中間，我母親與我相對而坐。她瞄了一眼我帶來的橘子，向我點頭表示滿意。

我從三千英里(約4827公里)以外的地方來看她，但如今沉默卻在我們之間筑起了一堵墻。晚期帕金森病已經讓她無法開口說話。她萎縮已久的，喪失了一切功能的雙腿吊晃著。我把她推到一個小房間里，仍不能相信這病就這樣將我們拴在這幾堵白墻之內，脫離了生活。

母親的雙眸明亮，如光彩閃亮的珍珠。曾經，一想到住進養老院，她的雙眸一開始流露出的是憤怒，然后是指責，再后來是懇求。但如今，她只是順從地看著我，偶爾，雙眼定格在某個遙遠的地方。

時間一分一秒地流逝，我只是無助地看著她。沉默之中，我的腦海里飛快地閃過很多很多的念頭。我覺得，如果再早一點診斷的話，如果我住在離她不那么遠的地方，那可能還有希望，我感到的就不會是愧疚了。我還記得小時候，她背著我時那背上透出的溫暖，而我的小手臂就像圍巾一樣緊緊地纏著她;我發燒時，全身泛紅，她輕輕地搖著我長滿皰疹的身體，直到我睡著;在炎夏的晚上，我們在九龍的屋頂天臺，嗑著瓜子，看著下面街道上閃爍的霓虹燈。……