my mother_口语mymother

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I'm sitting at my mother's desk, a mahogany secretary with a writing leaf that folds downto reveal rows of cubby-holes and tiny drawers-even a sliding secret compartment.I've loved it since I was just tall enough to see above the leaf as Mother sat doing letters.Standing by her chair, staring at the ink bottle, pens, and smooth white paper, I decided that the act of writing must be the most delightful thing in the world.Years later, during her final illne, Mother reserved various items for my sister and brother.“But the desk,”she'd repeat,“is for Elizabeth.”I sensed Mother communicating with this gift, a communication I'd craved for 50 years.My mother was brought up in the Victorian belief that emotions were private.Nice people said only nice things.I never saw her angry, never saw her cry.I knew she loved me；she expreed it in action.But as a teenager I yearned for heart-to-heart talks between mother and daughter.They never happened.And a gulf opened between us.I was“too emotional”.She lived“under the surface”.She was willing to“accept the relationship on these terms”.I was not.As years paed and I raised my own family.I loved the equilibrium.I loved her and thanked her for our harmonious home.Forgive me, I wrote, for having been critical.In careful words, I asked her to let me know in any way she chose that she did forgive me.I mailed the letter and waited eagerly for her reply.None came.Eagerne turned to disappointment, then resignation and, finally, peace.I couldn't be sure that the letter had even got to mother.I only knew that having written it.I could stop trying to make her into someone she was not.For the last 15 years of her life we enjoyed a relationship on her terms-light, affectionate, cheerful.Now the gift of her desk told me, as she'd never been able to, that she was pleased that writing was my chosen work.My sister stored the desk until we could pick it up.Then it stayed in our attic for nearly a year while we converted a bedroom into a study.When at last I brought the desk down, it was dusty from months of storage.Lovingly, I polished the drawers and cubby-holes.Pulling out the secret compartment, I found papers inside.A photograph of my father.Family wedding announcements.And a one-page letter, folded and refolded many times.Send me a reply, my letter asks, in any way you choose.Mother, you always chose the act that speaks louder than words.我坐在母亲的书桌旁，这是一张桌面活动的红木写字台。将桌面折叠起来，就可以看到几排分类书橱和小抽屉——甚至还有一个滑门暗隔间。

当我的个头刚刚高过桌面，看到母亲坐在桌旁，做些文字案头的事，就深深地迷上了这张书桌。站在母亲的椅子边，好奇地盯着桌子摆放的墨水瓶、钢笔和光滑洁白的纸张，我就想伏案写作一定是世界上最惬意的事了。

许多年以后，在母亲患病的最后日子里，她嘱咐留下好些物品给姐姐、哥哥作纪念。“但是那张书桌”，她多次说道，“是要留给伊丽莎白的。”我明白母亲是在用这件礼物传达一种感情，而这正是50年来我一直朝思暮想渴望得到的。

母亲是在维多利亚式的信仰下长大的。他们信奉：人的感情应该是含蓄的，有教养的人谈吐要高雅得体。我从未见过母亲动怒，也不曾见她高声喊叫过。我知道她爱我，但那是一种将点点滴滴都溶进了行动中的爱。而正值豆蔻年华的我却渴望母女间有一种推心置腹的倾心交谈。

我和母亲之间从未有过这种交谈，好似有条鸿沟横亘在我们中间。我是极情绪化的人，易动感情；而母亲却总是波澜不惊，将情感深藏心底。她心安于我们之间这种若即若离的关系，可我不愿意。

岁月流逝，我也有了自己的孩子。我爱这种感情上的均衡。我爱母亲，感谢母亲给我们营造了一个温馨和谐的家。请原谅我，我在信中写道，原谅我过去的苛刻。我谨慎措词，请求母亲以她喜欢的方式来告诉我她确实原谅了我。

信寄出去了，我急切地盼着回音，却杳如黄鹤。

热切的盼望终成失望，无奈之下我只有听之任之，最后竟也心平气和了。我甚至怀疑母亲是否收到了那封信。我仅知道虽然曾写过那么一封信，我不再会拼命地想要改变母亲，使她成为一个失去个性的人。在她最后15年的时光里，我们一直以她习惯的方式相处——轻松愉快、亲情依依、其乐融融。

现在，母亲把这张书桌作为礼物送给我，是在告诉我：她对我选择写作生涯极为满意，而这正是她一直未能如愿的。

书桌在拿回家之前，一直放在姐姐家。后来因我们要将一间卧室改造成书房，它又在小阁楼上呆了将近一年。

我终于把书桌搬下来了。好几个月的闲置使得它灰尘厚积。心中充溢着爱的温暖，我仔细地将抽屉和书橱擦得光洁如新。拉开那个暗隔间，我发现里面放了些文件：一张父亲的照片，家庭成员的结婚公告，还有一封展读多次、仅一页纸内容的信。

在信中，我要求道：请以您喜欢的方式，给我一个答复。母亲，您还是选择了行动，因为那胜过任何言语。