The Ritual1)
Every Sunday morning is the same. I wake up with a start to find myself buried in my wife’s empty pillow. I’m almost able to smell her. And my hands ache2) to touch her body. That’s when I remember she’s gone. And so, wearily3), I rub the sleep from my eyes with closed fists, run my hands through my tousled hair and force my feet over the bed’s edge. As I slowly stand up, I hear the television downstairs blaring“Bullwinkle and Rocky”-a sure sign that Angel is awake. This always puts a smile on my face. I head down the stairs and give her a big hug and kiss. It is a daily ritual between us. When I’m too tired to remember to do it though, she sweetly purses her lips at me and waits expectantly. “Whatcha doin’4)?”I’ll always ask. “It’s morning, ”she says and purses her lips again. “I know. But what are you doing?”
Of course I know the answer. Angel always sighs loudly and rolls her eyes in that adorable, three-year-old way of hers. “I’m waiting for my kiss, Daddy. ”And dutifully, though a little chagrined5), I lean down to kiss her small lips. This elicits a smile brighter than the morning sun.
Breakfast with Angel is my favorite part of the day. My wife, a true night owl6), would never wake before noon on Sundays, so we used to fend for ourselves. I’ve become quite the cook lately, and now our table is usually laden with French Toast, bacon, cinnamon muffins, freshly-made orange juice and coffee. Angel and I converse about her dollies and all the things she has planned for the day, most of which includes playing“house”and having snacks. I pull out the paper and show her all the pictures, explaining the stories behind them. “Just like on TV.”she cries, and I laugh while shaking my head.
After eating, she and I go through the daily ritual of getting dressed, which she must do by herself. I watch her carefully, on hand in case the buttons decide to be a bit difficult. Sundays call for a dress, something she loathes7) because it limits her outside play activities, but she never complains. She knows why she’s getting dressed up. I throw on clothes of my own. We climb into the car and get seat-belted in. “Last one belted in is a rotten egg.” she cries out and we both race to see who can get buckled in first. It’s become a game for us, a way to never forget. That’s when we drive to the cemetery.
Walking among the tombstones and flowers, Angel grows quiet. This is Daddy’s sad place, and she instinctively knows not to chatter. I appreciate this gesture, for it lets me get a little bit lost in my sorrow. This is where my wife sleeps now.
Carrie Rochelle Davis
Beloved wife of Michael and mother of Angel
Born May 2, 1966
Died July 1, 1995
. . . is what the hard, gray stone reads, the words so stark I can see them behind my closed eyelids at night.
All around us, I can smell Spring. The trees are green and leafy. I can hear the sounds of children playing in their yards and the lawn mowers8) kicking into gear. And the air has a warm breeze to it-the kind that warms the hairs on your arms as it blows by.
But none of that is Carrie. Carrie who wore the musky smell of vanilla behind her ears. Carrie who had the icy blue eyes of a winter sky. Carrie who would sing off -key in the car with the radio turned loud. This place of quiet, this place of the dead, was not Carrie. My Carrie would have laughed at me for being so foolish. She would have wanted me to go on with my life, and set about finding another woman to give my love to. Still, each Sunday we came.
Angel falls to her knees and stares at the orange and yellow tulips I place on the ground. “Does Mommy like flowers?”she asks. “Yes, sweetie. She liked them in the brightest of colors. They made her happy, ”I say as the tears well up in my eyes. I fight hard to keep them in, and just when I think I succeed. . .
“When’s Mommy coming home?”Anguished, I can’t answer her. Seeing this, she wraps her small arms around my legs and says, “It’s okay. Let’s let Mommy go nigh-night.” I nod silently, and she stands back up.
“Bye Mommy.Don’ t let the bed bugs bite.”And she pats the stone’s top like she’s patting a dog’s head. I smile at the gesture. To her, Mommy will always be this place, and Daddy putting flowers next to her bed. She’ll never know the woman who brought her home from the hospital and cried the whole night through because“she’s gonna9) grow up someday and go to school and fall in love and get married and make me a grandmother.” Carrying that thought with me, a small smile appears at my mouth. “C’ mon, beautiful. Let’s go play house. ”“Can I be the Mommy??? Please?!?”“Sure you can. ”And we turn away to face the afternoon, together.
□by Jade Walker
儀式
星期日的上午總是這樣。一覺醒來, 最先感到的是躺在妻的空枕上。我?guī)缀踹€能嗅到她的芬香, 而我的雙手急切地伸出要去觸摸她的軀體。這就是她離我而去時在我心中留下的感受。帶著這般心情, 我懶洋洋地用握緊的拳頭揉了揉睡眼, 然后雙手撓了撓蓬亂的頭發(fā), 強打著精神下了床。慢慢地站起身, 我聽到了樓下的電視機里飄來“Bullwinkle and Rocky”節(jié)目的聲音-很明顯, 安杰爾已經(jīng)醒了。這個時候, 我的臉上總能感受到一絲笑容。我徑直走下樓梯, 緊緊地抱住她, 吻她。每日我倆都重復(fù)著同樣的儀式。但有時我太疲乏了, 就會把這一切忘了。這時, 安杰爾總會對我甜甜地噘起雙唇, 期盼著我的回應(yīng)。“你在干嗎?”我總是這樣問她。“現(xiàn)在是早上, ”她答道, 隨之又把嘴唇鼓起。“我知道是早晨。但是你究竟在干什么呢?”
當(dāng)然, 答案我是再清楚不過的了。這時, 安杰爾總會以一個3歲孩子所特有的可愛樣子大聲地嘆口氣, 并翻翻眼珠子。“爸爸, 我在等你親我呢。”于是, 我彎下身, 盡職地, 而又帶點兒懊惱地吻一下她那嬌小的雙唇。這必然會使她臉上綻出她那比朝陽還要明亮的笑容。
與安杰爾共進早餐是一天中我最快活的時光。我的妻, 一個真正的夜貓子, 周日不 到正午是絕不會醒來的。所以我們只有各顧各的肚子了。最近, 我已練成了一個不賴的廚師了。我們的桌子上通常擺滿了薯條、熏肉、肉桂松餅、鮮橙汁, 還有咖啡。安杰爾和我的話題不外乎是她的娃娃以及她一天的安排。大多數(shù)時間是在玩“過家家”, 還有吃零嘴兒。我攤開報紙, 指給她看所有的圖片, 并把相關(guān)的故事講給她聽。“跟電視沒什么兩樣。”她大喊起來;我笑著搖搖頭。
吃完飯, 安杰爾和我便開始了每日的穿衣儀式。這一過程她定要獨立完成。我仔細地看著她, 并在她萬一系不上扣子時幫上一把。星期日需要衣冠楚楚。安杰爾對此很不情愿, 因為這使得她在室外玩耍很不方便, 但是她從不抱怨。她清楚為什么她要穿戴整齊。我將衣服披上身, 然后鉆進了汽車, 開始系安全帶。“誰最后系上誰是臭蛋。”安杰爾喊道。于是我倆便爭先恐后地把安全帶系上。這已成為我倆一定要玩的游戲。于是我們便開始了駛往墓地的路程。
穿梭于墓碑與鮮花之間, 安杰爾開始變得沉默寡言。這里是父親的傷感之地;她本能地曉得不能喋喋不休地亂說話。對她的沉默我很感激。這使我得以沉浸于傷感之中。這里是妻現(xiàn)在的長眠之地。
卡麗·羅切爾·戴維斯
邁克爾的愛妻、安杰爾的慈母
生于1966年5月2日
歿于1995年7月1日
堅硬的、灰暗的碑石如是說。碑文就是如此嚴苛率直, 即使是深夜閉上眼, 我也能看見它們。
環(huán)繞我們的是春天的氣息。樹林已是枝綠葉茂。我聽到了孩子們在院子中嬉戲的聲音;我還聽到了綠地上割草機的轟鳴聲??諝庵醒笠缰挽愕奈L(fēng)---它拂暖了你臂膀上的汗毛。
然而, 這一切都不是卡麗。耳后散發(fā)著香草芬芳的卡麗, 有著寒空中冰藍的雙眸的卡麗, 隨著車內(nèi)高音量的樂曲哼唱走調(diào)的卡麗。這是塊死般靜的地方, 它不是卡麗。我的卡麗會笑我如此癡心的。她定會希望我重新開始我的人生, 找一位我可以向她付出愛的女人的。然而, 每一個周日我們依舊來到這里。
安杰爾雙膝跪著, 凝視著我放在地上的那束桔黃色的郁金香。“媽咪喜歡花兒嗎?”她問道。“是的, 寶貝。她喜歡最鮮艷的花兒。這些花兒使她開心得很。”說這話時淚水直在我的眼眶里打轉(zhuǎn)。我強忍住眼淚。然而, 在我覺得剛剛要平靜下來時……
“媽咪什么時候回家呀?”我一下子心如刀絞, 沒有回答她??吹轿业臉幼?/span>, 安杰爾不禁用柔弱的雙臂摟住了我的腿, 說道, “好了。那, 那讓我們跟媽咪道聲晚喃(安)吧。”我默默地點了點頭。安杰爾隨后起了身。
“媽咪, 再見了。當(dāng)心別讓蟲子給叮了。”她拍一下墓碑頂部, 就像在拍一只愛犬的腦袋。我不禁笑了。對于她, 這里將永遠是媽咪的睡榻, 而爸爸則不斷地將束束鮮花放在她的床邊。安杰爾永遠也不會了解這個將她從醫(yī)院抱回家的女人, 也不會曉得這個女人曾經(jīng)整個晚上泣不成聲, 只因為“她總有一天會長大、上學(xué), 然后戀愛、嫁人, 而我則成了一個老奶奶。”這樣想著, 一絲微笑不知不覺地掛在了我的嘴角。“過來吧, 美妞兒。我們一起回去玩過家家吧。”“那我能做媽咪嗎?好嗎?!”“當(dāng)然可以了”。于是我倆轉(zhuǎn)身離開了墓地, 一同去迎接下午的來臨。
NOTE 注釋:
1. ritual [5ritjuEl] n. 典禮, (宗教)儀式, 禮節(jié)
2. ache [eik] vi. 渴望
3. wearily [5wiErili] adv. 懶洋洋的,疲倦地
4. whatcha doin’ = what are you doing 你在干什么
5. chagrin [5FA^rin] n. 懊惱, 氣憤, 委屈
6. owl [Eul] n. 慣于晚上活動的人,夜貓子
7. loathe [lEuTz] vt. 厭惡,不情愿
8. mower [5mEuE] n. 割草機
9. gonna [5^CnE] <美> 將要(=going to)