by Janie Emaus
As teenagers we live in a different world from our mothers, a world where mothers hang out on the peripheries. Of course, almost everyone has one; they are unavoidable annoyances.
Today, as I approach that edge, as I am the one with the teenage daughter, I look at my mother through different eyes. And I sometimes wish I could halt the years and stop her from growing older, stop her from repeating herself.
作為孩子，我們生活在和母親不同的世界裏，生活在壹個由母親監控的世界裏。當然，幾乎每個人都有壹個這樣的世界，這是不可避免的煩惱。
現在，當我也處在監控的位置上，當我也成為壹個女孩的母親時，我開始從另壹個角度來看我的母親。有時候，我希望自己能夠讓時間停止，讓我的母親不再變得衰老，讓她不再壹遍遍地嘮叨。
We sit at my kitchen table as the sun designs a mosaic of light on the tile floor. My daughter, Anna, sits next to my mother.
"When is Rick going to be here?" my mother asks, referring to my husband.
"I don't know, Mom," I answer patiently. "He'll be here for dinner."
我們坐在餐桌旁邊，陽光照在地板上，形成馬賽克狀的光斑。我的女兒安娜就坐在我母親旁邊。
“瑞克什麽時候來？”母親問。瑞克是我的丈夫。
“我不知道，媽媽，”我耐心地回答，“他會來這兒吃飯。”
I sigh and get up from the table. This is at least the tenth time she has asked that question in as many minutes.
While my mother and daughter play Monopoly, I busy myself making a salad.
"Don't put in any onions," Mom says. "You know how Daddy hates onions."
我嘆了口氣，站起身來。不大壹會工夫，她已經問了不下十遍了。
媽媽和女兒在玩強手棋，我則忙著做沙拉。
“別放洋蔥，”媽媽說，“妳知道妳爸爸有多討厭洋蔥。”
"Yes, Mom," I answer, shoving the scallions back into the fridge.
I scrub off a carrot and chop it into bite-size pieces. I thrust the knife into the carrot with more force than is necessary. A slice falls onto the floor.
“好的，媽媽。”我回答道，順手把洋蔥又塞進冰箱。
我洗幹凈壹個胡羅蔔，把它切成小塊。我象撒氣似的用力把刀刺進胡羅蔔。有壹片羅蔔掉到了地上。
"Don't put any onions in the salad," she reminds me. "You know how Daddy hates onions."
This time I can't answer.
I just keep cutting. Chopping. Tearing. If only I could chop away the years. Shred the age from my mother's face and hands.
“沙拉裏壹點洋蔥也不要放，”她提醒我，“妳知道妳爸爸有多討厭洋蔥。”
這次我沒有回答。
我只是不停地切著、剁著、流著淚。要是我能把這些年流逝的時間壹掃而光就好了。將母親臉上、手上的歲月滄桑撫平。
My mother had been beautiful. She still is. In fact, my mother is still everything she has been, just a bit forgetful. I try to convince myself that's all that it is, and if she really concentrated, she would not repeat herself so much. There isn't anything wrong with her.
母親壹直都很漂亮。現在也是。實際上，母親基本沒變，只是有點健忘。我試著說服自己，就是這點問題，如果她真能集中精力，就不會這麽壹遍遍地嘮叨了。她並沒有什麽毛病。
I cut off the end of the cucumber and rub it against the stalk to take away the bitterness. The white juice oozes out the sides. Wouldn't it be nice if all unpleasant situations could be so easily remedied? Cut and rub. This is a trick I have learned from my mother, along with a trillion other things: cooking, sewing, dating, laughing, thinking. I learned how to grow up. I learned the art of sorting through emotions.
我切下黃瓜的壹端，用它在黃瓜上摩擦以消除苦味。白色的汁液從邊上滲出來。如果所有的不快都能這麽容易地解決，這不是太好了嗎？切下來，然後摩擦。這是我從母親那裏學來的竅門，除了這個，還有數不清的事情：做飯，縫紉、約會、笑、思考。我學會了如何長大，學會了處理感情的藝術。
And I learned that when my mother was around, I never had to be afraid.
So why am I afraid now?
而且我知道，只要母親在旁邊，沒有什麽東西可以讓我害怕。
那麽，現在我為什麽害怕呢？
I study my mother's hands. Her nails are no longer a bright red, but painted a light pink, almost no color at all. And as I stare at them, I realize I am no longer looking at those hands but feeling them as they shaped my youth. Hands that packed a thousand lunches and wiped a million tears off my cheeks. Hands that tucked confidence into each day of my life.
我仔細端詳母親的手。她的指甲不再是鮮紅色的了，但卻塗成了淡粉色，那顏色淡得幾乎沒有。在我端詳這雙手的時候，我發現自己不再是看這雙手，而是在感覺這雙塑造我青春的手。這是壹雙為我裝過成千上萬次午餐，無數次從我的臉頰擦去淚水的手，是壹雙在我生命中的每壹天都給我信心的手。
I turn away and throw the cucumber into the bowl. And then it hits me. My hands have grown into those of my mother's.
Hands that have cooked uneaten meals, held my own daughter's frightened fingers on the first day of school and dried tears off her face.
我轉過身把黃瓜扔進碗裏。然後我突然心中壹動。 我的手已經長成了母親那樣。
這雙手曾做了多少頓沒有吃的飯，曾在女兒上學的頭壹天握著她受驚的手指，擦幹她臉上的淚水。
I grow lighthearted. I can feel my mother kiss me goodnight, check to see if the window is locked, then blow another kiss from the doorway. Then I am my mother, blowing that same kiss to Anna off that same palm.
Outside everything is still. Shadows fall among the trees, shaped like pieces of a puzzle.
我的心情舒暢起來。我能感覺到母親吻我，向我道晚安，檢查窗戶是否關嚴，然後在門口又給我壹個飛吻。然後，我變成了我的媽媽，用同壹個手掌也給了安娜壹個飛吻。
屋外壹切如舊。樹影朦朧，如同壹個迷。
Someday my daughter will be standing in my place, and I will rest where my mother now sits.
Will I remember then how it felt to be both mother and daughter? Will I ask the same question one too many times?
總有壹天我的女兒會站在這裏，而我會在母親坐的位置上休息。
那時我還會記得為人母又為人女時的感受嗎？我也會無數次地問同樣的問題嗎？
I walk over and sit down between my mother and her granddaughter.
"Where is Rick?" my mother asks, resting her hand on the table next to mine. The space between us is smaller than when I was a teenager, barely visible at all.
我走過去，坐在我母親和她的孫女中間。
“瑞克在哪兒？”母親問，她的手放在桌上，緊挨著我的手。我們之間的距離比起我還是孩子的時候要小得多，幾乎看不見。
And in that instant I know she remembers. She may repeat herself a little too much. But she remembers.
"He'll be here," I answer with a smile.
在那壹刻我知道她記起來了。她可能壹會兒的工夫就反反復復嘮叨好幾遍，但她記起來了。
“他會來這。”我笑著回答。
My mother smiles back, one of those grins where the dimple takes over the shape of her face, resembling my daughter.
母親對我笑了笑，笑容在臉上蕩漾開來的樣子，很象我的女兒。
Then she lets her shoulders relax, picks up the dice.
然後，她的肩膀松弛下來，拿起了骰子。