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Mother's Hands

Night after night, she came to tuck me in, even long after my childhood years. Following her longstanding custom, she'd lean down and push my long hair out of the way, then kiss my forehead.

I don't remember when it first started annoying me - her hands pushing my hair that way. But it did annoy me, for they felt work-worn and rough against my young skin. Finally, one night, I shouted out at her, "Don't do that anymore - your hands are too rough!" She didn't say anything in reply. But never again did my mother close out my day with that familiar expression of her love.

Time after time, with the passing years, my thoughts returned to that night. By then I missed my mother's hands, missed her goodnight kiss on my forehead. Sometimes the incident seemed very close, sometimes far away. But always it lurked, in the back of my mind.

Well, the years have passed, and I'm not a little girl anymore. Mom is in her mid-seventies, and those hands I once thought to be so rough are still doing things for me and my family. She's been our doctor, reaching into a medicine cabinet for the remedy to calm a young girl's stomach or soothe the boy's scraped knee. She cooks the best fried chicken in the world... gets stains out of blue jeans like I never could...

Now, my own children are grown and gone. Mom no longer has Dad, and on special occasions, I find myself drawn next door to spend the night with her. So it was late on Thanksgiving Eve, as I slept in the bedroom of my youth, a familiar hand hesitantly run across my face to brush the hair from my forehead. Then a kiss, ever so gently, touched my brow.

In my memory, for the thousandth time, I recalled the night my young voice complained, "Don't do that anymore - your hands are too rough!" Catching Mom's hand in hand, I blurted out how sorry I was for that night. I thought she'd remember, as I did. But Mom didn't know what I was talking about. She had forgotten - and forgiven - long ago.

That night, I fell asleep with a new appreciation for my gentle mother and her caring hands. And the guilt that I had carried around for so long was nowhere to be found.

母亲的手

　　夜复一夜，她总是来帮我把被子掖好，即使我早已不是小孩子了。掖好被子后，她会弯下身来，拨开我的长发，在我的额头上吻一下。这是母亲长久以来的习惯。

　　不记得从何时起，我开始讨厌她用手拨开我的头发，讨厌她长期操劳、粗糙的手划过我细嫩的皮肤。终于，一天晚上，我冲她嚷道：“别再这样了——你的手太糙了！”母亲什么也没说。但从此之后，她再也没有在一天结束的时候用那种熟悉的方式流露她的爱。

　　时光荏苒，许多年之后，我的思绪又回到了那个晚上。那时我想念母亲的手，想念她晚上留在我额头上的亲吻。这幕情景有时似乎很近，有时又似乎很遥远。可它总是潜伏着，时常浮现，出现在我意识中。

　　一年年过去，我也不再是一个小女孩，母亲也年逾古稀。那双我认为很糙的手依然为我和我的家庭操劳着。她像我们的家庭医生，去药橱给我胃疼的女儿找胃药或为我儿子擦伤的膝盖敷药。她能做出世界上最美味的炸鸡，能洗掉牛仔裤上那些我永远都弄不干净的污点……

　　现在，我的孩子都已经长大，离开了家，母亲也没有了父亲的陪伴。在一些特别的日子里，我经常情不自禁地走到隔壁母亲的房间和她一起度过。于是，一次感恩节前夕的深夜，我睡在儿时的卧室里，一只熟悉的手有些犹豫地掠过我的脸，拨开我额头的头发，随后是一个吻，轻轻地印在我的眉毛上。

　　在我的记忆中，无数次回想起年轻时那晚我抱怨的声音：“别再这样了——你的手太糙了！”抓住母亲的手，我一股脑的说出了我对那一晚深深的愧疚。我以为她会像我一样，对那晚的事情记忆犹新。然而母亲却不知道我在说些什么，她已经在很久以前就忘了这事，并早就原谅了我。

　　那天晚上，我带着对母亲新的感激安然入睡，我感激她的温柔，和她那呵护的双手。多年来压在我心头的负罪感也随之烟消云散。