慢走好時光

Every morning， I go walking with my daughters.

The first half of our 1）jaunt goes quickly. The elementary school up the road starts at 9：05， and we don’t want to be late. We stroll 2）briskly uphill to the top of our quiet street， cut through a narrow 3）fringe of woods on a dirt path， and emerge at the end of the school playground. There， I hug my kindergartner goodbye and send her on her way， hot pink backpack bobbing behind her.

Then my 4-year-old and I turn around and start back.

This is a different sort of walk， one that lasts just as long as I am willing to let it. We cover the same one-third of a mile， but our pace is slower now， our path 4）meandering， as we pause to probe the mysteries along the way. Emerging from the woods and back onto the street， we stop and sit a minute on a pair of cold gray boulders at the pathway entrance， me on the larger one and Poesy on the small one. Then we 5）make a beeline for the storm drain in the street， so she can crouch and peer into the darkness far below. She practices skipping. She jumps over 6）puddles before she 7）wades into them. She plays with her shadow， raising her arms high； she stops to chat with an old man weeding his garden. Her attention constantly revolves， drawn by dogs， feathers， eye-catching pebbles. Some days she takes up a collection， stuffing her hands full of treasures， delegating me to carry what she can’t.

It’s easy to become impatient with this kind of walking. Morning is not my favorite time of day； it’s not a time I’m ever 8）pining for companionship. My natural inclination is to walk fast， to get where I’m going while planning my attack on the day ahead. My daughter and I both have places to be—she is due at preschool， while I must get to work—and though I know we’re lucky to have this time together， I can’t forget the clock is ticking as we wander homeward. Still， I try to follow Poesy’s lead as we go walking， to embrace her leisure and engagement with the world. Instead of 9）lamenting our halting， 10）zigzag progress， I ease my pace， quiet my mind， and strive to pay attention.

She finds a twig and a leaf and， animated with excitement， shows me how， together， they make a tiny flag. We pass a 11）sprinkler twirling in a sunlit yard and she spies a perfect rainbow hovering in the mist.“Mommy，” she says， breathless with amazement， “look！”One morning we move quietly through fog， watching how it blurs the distant edges of our route. Another day we come upon a shiny black Camaro. The curve of the car’s door compresses her reflection， making her look tiny， like a 2-year-old. She stands there staring at her toddler-sized self， 12）mesmerized by the glimpse into her past.

Watching her， I feel the rush of time， and I realize just how soon these walks of ours will end. Come September she will be in kindergarten； I will leave both girls at school and walk home on my own. These slow morning rambles with my 4-year-old—the new day glimmering around us， the sun warm on our backs—are the most fleeting kind of pleasure. I’ll try to remember， later， what she did and said， but the feeling of the moment， sweet and simple， will be gone.

I stop walking， looking over my shoulder for Poesy. When she gets to me， I reach down and take her hand.

每天早上，我都會和女兒們步行。

我們的前半段路程走得很快。路前方那間小學在9點零5分上課，我們不想遲到。我們疾步走到安靜的街道上坡，抄一條泥路穿過一小片樹林，到達學校的操場邊。在那里我跟上學前班的女兒擁抱揮別，目送她遠去，她身后那鮮亮的粉紅背包一跳一彈的。

然后我和我4歲的女兒便轉身往回走。

這是另一種步行方式，一種我想走多久就走多久的步行方式。我們的路程還是同樣那三分之一英里，但現在我們的步伐慢了下來，我們會停步探究沿路的神秘事物，我們的路線變得蜿蜒曲折。從樹林里出來，我們回到街道上。我們會在小徑入口處的兩塊冷灰色的大圓石上坐一會兒，我坐在較大的那塊上，波茜坐在較小的那塊上。然后我們便奔向街道的排水溝，她蹲伏窺視水溝下的黑暗深處。她練習蹦跳，跳過路上的水坑，舉高手與自己的影子玩耍，停下來與一位正在打理花園的老爺爺聊天。她的注意力不停地轉換，轉到狗狗上、羽毛上、搶眼的鵝卵石上。有時候，她會把路上的一些東西收集起來，手里抓滿她的珍藏品，還委派我拿一些她拿不了的東西。

這種步行方式很容易就會讓人感覺不耐煩。早晨不是我在一天當中最喜歡的時段，在這個時段我從不渴望別人的陪伴。我傾向于疾走，一邊走向目的地，一邊提前思考一天的計劃。我和女兒都有各自要去的地方——她要去上幼兒園，而我得去上班，雖然我明白像這樣的母女共處時光很難得，但我無法忘記在我們漫步歸家的同時，時間在一秒一秒地過去。……