永远离开我之前，她把所有的爱装进盒子
She Put Her Unspent Love in a Cardboard Box
GENEVIEVE KINGSTON
2021年7月6日
In the back of my closet is a small cardboard chest with brass handles and latches that has followed me to every new address; it’s the first thing I find a place for as the moving truck pulls away. An old sticker on the bottom says it was purchased at Ross for $26.99. The only remaining contents are three wrapped presents marked in my mother’s tidy cursive: “Engagement,” “Wedding” and “First Baby.”
在我衣柜的最里面，放着一个带有黄铜把手和锁扣的小纸箱，每换一个地方住，我都把它带在身边；搬家卡车一走，我要做的第一件事就是为它找个地方。箱子底部有张旧贴纸，上面写着购买地点是罗斯百货，售价26.99美元。除此之外，里面只有三件包装好的礼物，上面是我母亲整齐的手写体：“订婚”、“结婚”和“第一个孩子”。
My mother, who put her business degree to use running a small nutritional beverage company with my father in Santa Rosa, Calif., while raising my older brother and me, was always prepared. By day she made marketing slogans, distribution strategies, five-year plans. By night: bubble baths, pillow forts, bedtime stories.
持有商学学位的母亲，和父亲一起在加州圣罗莎经营一家小型营养饮料公司，同时抚养哥哥和我，她永远都提前做好准备。白天，她要制定营销口号、分销策略和五年计划。晚上则是：泡泡浴、枕头堡垒、睡前故事。
She and I had the same February birthday. Each year my parents arranged elaborate parties. She once spent a week making a school of origami fish to swim through tissue paper seaweed across the ceiling of our dining room.
她和我的生日在2月同一天。每年父母都会精心策划派对。有一次，她花了一个星期时间做了一堆折纸鱼，让它们游过悬在我们餐厅天花板上的纸巾海藻。
When I was 3, she learned she had advanced breast cancer and immediately began to prepare by researching every available treatment: conventional, alternative, Hail Mary. She flooded her body with chemotherapy and carrot juice.
我三岁那年，她得知自己已经是乳腺癌晚期患者，就立刻开始准备，研究所有可能的治疗办法：传统的、替代的、祈祷的。她的身体里满是化疗药物和胡萝卜汁。
Each day, she would sit for hours at our long oval dining table, her straight dark hair tied back, surrounded by piles of paper, studying dense, technical paragraphs.
每天，她都会在我家长长的椭圆餐桌前坐上几个小时，一头乌黑的直发绑在脑后，手边是成堆的文档，研究那些大段大段的专业术语。
“Medical research,” my father said as he shepherded me from the room.
“医学研究，”父亲边说边把我领出房间。
She was always looking for a way to survive.
她一直在寻找活下来的办法。
When I was 7, the materials on the dining table began to change. Wrapping paper and ribbons took the place of her highlighted pages as her arms worked busily under the dark fuzz of her shorn head. Scissors swished through gift wrap. Paper creased under her fingers. Ribbon cut to length with one snip. Knots came together with a tiny creak. Swish, crease, snip, creak.
我七岁那年，餐桌上的材料变了。包装纸和丝带取代了被她标注的书页，她顶着一头黑色短发，胳膊一刻不停地忙碌着。剪刀嗖嗖地剪过礼品包装。手指折好纸张。一刀就剪好丝带长度。打好结时发出轻微的吱吱声。嗖嗖，折叠，咔嚓，吱吱。
She had begun assembling two gift boxes: one for my brother and one for me.
她开始装配两个礼物盒：一个给哥哥，一个给我。
There was a rhythm in the room. She bent closer and closer to write the labels as her vision began to fail, a result of the cancer having spread to her brain.
屋子里有了一种节奏。由于癌细胞已经扩散到大脑，她的视力开始衰退，弯下腰写标签时靠得越来越近。
Inside, she packed presents and letters for the milestones of our lives she would miss — driver’s license, graduation and every birthday until the age of 30. When the boxes were full, my father carried them up to our rooms. She died 10 days before our shared birthday.
她将为我们的人生里程碑准备的礼物和信件打包装箱，那是她将要错过的事情——拿到驾照、毕业和30岁之前的每个生日。箱子装满后，父亲将它们搬到我们的房间。距离我们的共同生日还有10天的时候，她去世了。
That morning, when I turned 12 and she would have turned 49, I woke up early. The box sat three steps from the foot of my bed. Just as my mother had shown me, I lifted the latches and opened it.
在我12岁、而她本该年满49岁的那天早上，我很早就醒了。箱子离我的床脚就三步远。按照母亲告诉我的那样，我抬起锁扣，打开了箱子。
Neat rows of brightly wrapped presents glowed like the spring tulips that were just coming up in the front yard. I opened the package marked “12th Birthday” and found a little ring with an amethyst at its center. A white card curling around the present read: “I always wanted a birthstone ring when I was a little girl. Your Granny finally bought me one and I loved it more than I can say. I hope you like it, too. Happy birthday, darling girl! Love, your Mommy.”
整齐排列的礼物都用彩色包装纸包好，就像春天刚在前院里盛开的郁金香一样闪闪发亮。我打开了写着“12岁生日”的包裹，发现了一枚小戒指，中间镶了一颗紫水晶。一张包住礼物的白色卡片上写道：“当我还是个小姑娘的时候，一直想要一枚诞生石戒指。你外婆终于给我买了一个，我爱不释手。希望你也能喜欢。生日快乐，亲爱的女儿！爱你的妈妈。”
I slid the ring on and traced her writing with my fingertip. Her words, written to bridge the gap between us, cut through space and time.
我戴上戒指，用指尖描摹她的字迹。她写下的话穿越了时间和空间，成了连接我们的桥梁。
When I got my first period and couldn’t bring myself to talk to my father about it, a four-page letter from my mother (marked “First Period”) laid out practical advice: “Take time to make friends with yourself. Take time to learn what interests you, what your opinions and feelings are, find your own sense of the world and which values you hold most dear.”
当我第一次来月经，却没办法告诉父亲的时候，母亲留给我的四页信纸（标记为“第一次月经”）给了我实用的建议：“花时间去交自己的朋友。花时间了解你的兴趣所在，你的观点和感受，寻找自己的世界观，以及你最珍视的价值。”
As I read, I wanted to fall through the white, lightly textured page and into her arms.
我一边读，一边想要穿越那带有轻微纹理的白色信纸，投入她的怀抱。
“Please try not to lose yourself,” it continued. “These are challenging years. Call on me for help when you feel confused.”
“请尽量不要迷失自己，”信中继续写道。“这是充满挑战的岁月。当你感到困惑，呼唤我来帮忙。”
On the morning of my high school graduation, a strand of pearls made a sound like a maraca as I drew them from the box. Her note read: “There seemed to be a tradition in my family that when girls graduated from high school, they received a string of pearls. Well, my string of pearls never arrived.”
在高中毕业典礼那天早上，我从箱子里取出了一串沙沙作响的珍珠项链。她在留下的笔记中说：“我们家似乎有一个传统，女儿高中毕业时，就会收到一串珍珠项链。但我一直没得到属于我的那串珍珠。”
That’s because my mother, bound for adventure, skipped her senior year, and bought herself these pearls when she finished business school. She wanted me to know there was more than one path to walk through the world, and that I deserved to be celebrated. I wore the pearls that afternoon as I crossed the football field to accept my diploma.
这是因为我的母亲注定要冒险，她跳过了高中最后一年，是在商学院毕业后，她才给自己买了珍珠项链。她想让我知道，这世界不止有一条路可以走，我值得被庆祝。那天下午，我戴着珍珠项链走过橄榄球场，接受了毕业证书。
Year after year, my mother traveled forward in time to meet me, always in the guise of a little package with a pink ribbon and a little white notecard: “Happy 15th!” “Happy 16th!” “Congratulations on your driver’s license!” “You’re a college girl!” “Happy 21st!” “Happy birthday, darling girl! Love, your Mommy.”
年复一年，母亲都溯时间之流而上与我相见，她把自己装扮成一个小包裹，上面系着粉红色丝带，贴着一张白色小卡片，写着：“15岁生日快乐！”“16岁生日快乐！”“祝贺你拿了驾照！”“你是个女大学生了！”“21岁生日快乐！”“亲爱的女儿，生日快乐！爱你的妈妈。”
Each time I opened the box, I could, for the briefest moment, inhabit a shared reality, something she imagined for us many years ago. It was like a half-remembered scent, the first notes of a familiar song, each time, a tiny glimpse of her.
每次打开箱子的瞬间，我都仿佛进入了一个共同的现实，那是她在很多年前对我们的想象。这就像一种似曾相识的气味，一首熟悉乐曲的第一个音符，每一次，都是对她的惊鸿一瞥。
When I was a child, opening the next package felt like a treasure hunt. As I grew older, it began to feel like something far more fundamental, like air or community, something like prayer. Her messages met me like guideposts in a dark forest; if her words couldn’t point the way, at least they offered the comfort of knowing someone had been there before.
在我年纪还小的时候，打开下一个包裹就像是一场寻宝。等到长大后，我开始觉得这是一种更接近天性的东西，像空气或社区，像祈祷。她写下的信息仿若黑暗丛林里的路标一样出现在我眼前；就算她的话不能指明方向，至少还能提供慰藉，让我知道，以前也有人曾到过这里。
A decade after I lost my mother, my father followed suddenly. She had spent years preparing her exit, but with him I blinked, and he was gone. The morning of his memorial, the box stared back at me with nothing to say. There was no letter for this.
在我失去母亲10年后，父亲也突然随她而去。她花了数年时间为离世做准备，但他只是一眨眼的功夫就不在了。在他追悼会的那个早上，箱子回望着我，无话可说。她没有为这件事留信。
I tried to conjure her voice but couldn’t. My father left no clues or letters. The only parenting I would have, from 22 on, was in the box.
我试图召唤她的声音，但没能成功。父亲没留下任何线索或信件。从22岁起，我唯一的怙恃就剩那个箱子。
When I hit 30, the nearly empty box sat in my Brooklyn apartment, clashing with the furniture. Only those three packages remained: Engagement, Wedding, First Baby. They sat in their shiny cardboard and pink ribbon, expectant, waiting.
当我到30岁时，几乎空了的箱子被放在我的布鲁克林公寓里，和家具挤在一起。里面只剩下三个包裹：订婚、结婚和第一个孩子。它们被崭新的纸盒和粉红丝带包住，期待着，等待着。
The problem was, I didn’t know if any of those things would happen. I didn’t know if I would choose them.
问题是，我不知道这些事会不会发生。我不知道自己是否要完成它们。
I had been living with someone for three years. I didn’t know if I ever wanted to get married, but I was in a committed, loving relationship, and whatever advice my mother had about committed, loving relationships, I wanted it. Now.
我已经和别人同居了三年。我不确定自己真的会结婚，但我确实处于一段忠诚相爱的关系中，无论母亲对忠诚相爱的关系有什么建议，我都想知道。现在就想。
I felt 12 again, and rebellious, as I pulled out the thick envelope marked “Engagement.” My fingertips felt cold as I opened it.
抽出写着“订婚”的厚信封时，我觉得自己又回到叛逆的12岁。打开它时，我的指尖冰凉。
It read: “My dearest little girl, of course you aren’t so little anymore as you read this but, you are little as I write. You are only 7 and I am facing the terrible sadness that you will be growing up without me.”
信中写道：“我最亲爱的小女儿，当你读到这封信时，你当然已经不小了，但我写信时，你还那么小。你只有七岁，而我正面临着一个可怕的悲剧，那就是你会在没有我的情况下长大。”
With the smooth pages crinkled in my grip, I found her hopes for what my marriage might look like.
当我把光滑的信纸攥皱的时候，我找到了她对我婚姻的期望。
“A true marriage is a marriage of what is most sacred in both of you. One must have an ease about both giving and receiving, a capacity for forgiveness for oneself as well as for the other, a personal sense of balance that is not dependent on the balance of the other, a kind of loving detachment.”
“真正的婚姻，是你们以最神圣的情感构成的。一个人必须对给予和接受都足够从容，有一种宽恕自己和另一半的能力，一种不依赖于另一半平衡的个人平衡，一种爱的超然。”
I didn’t know if I was capable of loving detachment. There was no detachment in the love that made the box, and no detachment in the love that opened it.
我不知道自己有没有爱的超然。构成这个箱子的爱里并没有超然，打开箱子的爱里也没有超然。
“I’m so sorry to be leaving you. Please forgive me. I know a box of letters and tokens can’t begin to take my place, but I wanted so badly to do something to ease your way through the future. Love, your Mommy.”
“很抱歉我要离开你了。请原谅我。我知道一箱信件和信物根本不能代替我的位置，但我真的很想做点什么，让你未来的日子能好过一点。爱你的妈妈。”
For 20 years I have pulled mothering from the box, but I don’t know if the next 20 will include the milestones she planned for me. I often wish I could lift the latches, jump inside and ask her which path I should walk and how I will recognize it. I want to ask if the life I’m carving for myself looks anything like she would have hoped. But I know this time travel only works one way.
20年来，我一直从箱子里取出母爱，但我不知道接下来的20年是否还会有她为我计划的人生里程碑。我常常希望自己能打开锁扣，跳进箱子里问她我该走哪条路，怎样才能发现这条路。我想问她，我为自己雕刻的人生是否符合她的期许。但我知道，这场时间旅行只有她的单行道。
After I read the engagement letter, I put it back with its unopened package and closed the box. Those three final secrets will remain secrets, for now. Maybe I’ll open them tomorrow, or in 10 years, or 20.
看完订婚信件之后，我把它放回未打开的包裹上，关好箱子。最后的三个秘密暂时还是秘密。也许我明天就会打开，也许是10年后，或者20年后。
There’s comfort in knowing there’s a little left in the box. My mother’s gifts, her letters, are a constant reminder that I have already been given what every child, what every human, needs: I have been fiercely, extravagantly, wildly loved.
知道箱子里还剩下一点东西，让我感到安慰。母亲的礼物和信件不断提醒着我，我已经得到了每个孩子、每个人所需要的东西：我曾经被热烈地、奢侈地、疯狂地宠爱过。
