想你念你每一天

It was early in the morning when the text came. My boyfriend Mike and I had planned a fun fall weekend afternoon， centered on a visit to a pumpkin patch， apple cider sipping， and returning home to carve up the chosen 1）gourds into appropriately 2）ghoulish 3）visages. Minutes before my alarm was set to ring， a 4）vibration from my 5）nightstand 6）rousted me from my lazy Saturday 7）slumber. 8）Squinting at the rectangle of light， I read：

It’s your Mom’s birthday today.

Please think of her today.

Love， Dad.

7：15 AM， Oct. 19

October 19. I hadn’t known that.

My mother died in January of 1997， when I was not quite eight years old. She had always had a tendency of running late—or so my Dad’s parents have told me—and she often sped to make up the difference—according to the usual narrative， anyway. Whatever the circumstances that day， the road was slick， and when Mom passed over a certain patch of ice， at a speed no one was around to 9）gauge， she “played 10）spin the bottle，”as Dad has since referred to it. With a minivan approaching in the opposing lane， it was just her luck that the “bottle” was 11）perpendicular to the other vehicle at the point of 12）impact， and Mom’s tiny white Chevy Corsica—neither well-made nor safe， as Grandma has since 13）chided—was crushed“like a tin can.” So states the 14）simile I grew up with. The 15）editorializing doesn’t even quite stop at the point when the 16）coroner enters the picture. Time of death： Too early. Cause： Lack of punctuality， cheap vehicle. More directly： Internal bleeding. Did she feel pain？ Did she ask for her children at the hospital？ Was she even conscious？ Did she know she was going to die？ Here， the commentary stops.

Today， I have very few clear memories of my mother. Mostly， I know that she sketched. I remember watching her draw figures， mostly women， impossibly 17）lithe and graceful and wearing impossibly beautiful period costumes and 18）ambiguous， parted lipped expressions. There were 19）antebellum Southern belles， medieval ladies in conical 20）headdresses， fringe-bedecked 1920s 21）flappers， and high-heeled modern career women. I could watch her draw for what seemed like hours and often attempted crude imitations of my own. Once， in a hospital waiting room， she showed me how to 22）fashion men and women from a series of interconnected ovals. This， I thought， must be her secret. But still， my own drawings never approached the glamour of the women in my mother’s sketchbooks， all a little mysterious and all dripping in sex appeal.

When I was young and tried to 23）conjure images of my mother， they never looked quite like her photographs. They were more like her sketches： slender， high-heeled， and lipsticked， existing in a state of effortless feminine 24）invincibility that allowed her to 25）juggle career， kids， and personal fabulousness. The mother of my recollection was all-knowing， a talented artist， and a beautiful woman that I envisioned myself someday becoming. With her suit and briefcase， she conquered courtrooms in her career as an attorney and came home to tell the best bedtime stories afterwards. Pictures and relatives would later tell me she was overweight and disorganized， that she kept a messy house and watched too many soap operas. Even my own memory can confirm that after she and my father separated， she did not instantly bounce back onto her feet and continue to live a perfect life， 26）devoid of struggle. Instead， she took my brother and me to live with her sister， and we shared a bedroom for about a year before finally getting a place of our own.

Since her death， connecting with the person that my mother really was has been a struggle. Immediately after the accident， I used to sleep with the 27）afghan her mother made her， rolled up vertically and tucked in next to me on the other side of my bed. It smelled like her， and I would pretend that it was like the months after the separation， with Mom and me sharing a bed each night. I would have conversations with her—or the person I imagined her to be—silently by myself each night. When Grandma finally washed the afghan， unaware that she was also washing away that all-important scent， I was privately furious， not just with her but with the passage of time and the inevitability that this would be just one in a series of similar small personal tragedies. My mother’s loss was not simply one 28）catastrophic event， but a constant process which continues through the distortion and fading of my own imperfect memory. It’s a process that I fight， however imperfectly， to this day. And so when I had thought and mourned and spent most of our time at the pumpkin patch sharing my recollections with Mike， I texted Dad back：

Every day.

3：10 PM， Oct 19

那條短信發來時，是個大清早。我和男朋友邁克已經計劃好一個有趣的秋日周末午后行程，主題是到一個南瓜園參觀，嘗點蘋果酒，然后選購幾個南瓜帶回家去刻成相宜的鬼怪南瓜燈。就在我調好的鬧鐘響起之前的幾分鐘，床頭柜上的一陣震動將我從慵懶的周六睡夢中喚醒。我瞇著眼看著亮著的長方形屏幕，讀起了信息：

今天是你媽媽的生日。

今天請緬懷她。

愛你的，爸爸。

10月19日上午7時15分

10月19日。我并不知道這天是母親的生忌。

我的母親是在1997年1月去世的，那時我還不到八歲。她老愛遲到——或者說祖父祖母是這樣告訴我的——她時常開快車，好彌補被拖延的時間——總之，這是我通常聽到的說法。無論那天的實際情況怎樣，那時的路面濕滑，當媽媽駛過某處結冰的路面時，周圍并沒有目擊者可以估測她當時的車速，她的車像“轉瓶子”一樣打轉，爸爸后來是這么形容那次意外的。對面車道有一輛小貨車迎面駛來，這就是命運吧——她的車正好被小貨車垂直撞上了，媽媽那輛嬌小的白色雪佛蘭科西嘉小車——質量既不好也不安全，奶奶至今仍這么責備道——像“鋁罐”那樣給撞扁了。這就是我從小便聽到的比喻。即便驗尸官登場，仍不乏揶揄評判。死亡時間：出門太早。死因：不守時，廉價車。更直接的原因：內出血。她感覺得到痛苦嗎？在醫院時她要求見見她的孩子了嗎？她那時還有意識嗎？她知道她可能會死嗎？就在這里，評論終于停息了。

如今，我對母親的記憶尚存無幾?！?br>