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The Ritual
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 elicits1 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 fend2 for ourselves. I’ve become quite the cook lately, and now our table is usually laden3 with French Toast, bacon, cinnamon muffins, freshly-made orange juice and coffee. Angel and I converse4 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 buckled5 in first. It’s become a game for us, a way to never forget. That’s when we drive to the cemetery6.
Walking among the tombstones and flowers, Angel grows quiet. This is Daddy’s sad place, and she instinctively7 knows not to chatter8. 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 stark9 I can see them behind my closed eyelids10 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 vanilla11 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 bugs12 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.
仪式
星期日的上午总是这样。一觉醒来, 最先感到的是躺在妻的空枕上。我几乎还能嗅到她的芬香, 而我的双手急切地伸出要去触摸她的躯体。这就是她离我而去时在我心中留下的感受。带着这般心情, 我懒洋洋地用握紧的拳头揉了揉睡眼, 然后双手挠了挠蓬乱的头发, 强打着精神下了床。慢慢地站起身, 我听到了楼下的电视机里飘来“Bullwinkle and Rocky”节目的声音-很明显, 安杰尔已经醒了。这个时候, 我的脸上总能感受到一丝笑容。我径直走下楼梯, 紧紧地抱住她, 吻她。每日我俩都重复着同样的仪式。但有时我太疲乏了, 就会把这一切忘了。这时, 安杰尔总会对我甜甜地噘起双唇, 期盼着我的回应。“你在干吗？”我总是这样问她。“现在是早上, ”她答道, 随之又把嘴唇鼓起。“我知道是早晨。但是你究竟在干什么呢？”
当然, 答案我是再清楚不过的了。这时, 安杰尔总会以一个３岁孩子所特有的可爱样子大声地叹口气, 并翻翻眼珠子。“爸爸, 我在等你亲我呢。”于是, 我弯下身, 尽职地, 而又带点儿懊恼地吻一下她那娇小的双唇。这必然会使她脸上绽出她那比朝阳还要明亮的笑容。
与安杰尔共进早餐是一天中我最快活的时光。我的妻, 一个真正的夜猫子, 周日不 到正午是绝不会醒来的。所以我们只有各顾各的肚子了。最近, 我已练成了一个不赖的厨师了。我们的桌子上通常摆满了薯条、熏肉、肉桂松饼、鲜橙汁, 还有咖啡。安杰尔和我的话题不外乎是她的娃娃以及她一天的安排。大多数时间是在玩“过家家”, 还有吃零嘴儿。我摊开报纸, 指给她看所有的图片, 并把相关的故事讲给她听。“跟电视没什么两样。”她大喊起来；我笑着摇摇头。
吃完饭, 安杰尔和我便开始了每日的穿衣仪式。这一过程她定要独立完成。我仔细地看着她, 并在她万一系不上扣子时帮上一把。星期日需要衣冠楚楚。安杰尔对此很不情愿, 因为这使得她在室外玩耍很不方便, 但是她从不抱怨。她清楚为什么她要穿戴整齐。我将衣服披上身, 然后钻进了汽车, 开始系安全带。“谁最后系上谁是臭蛋。”安杰尔喊道。于是我俩便争先恐后地把安全带系上。这已成为我俩一定要玩的游戏。于是我们便开始了驶往墓地的路程。
穿梭于墓碑与鲜花之间, 安杰尔开始变得沉默寡言。这里是父亲的伤感之地；她本能地晓得不能喋喋不休地乱说话。对她的沉默我很感激。这使我得以沉浸于伤感之中。这里是妻现在的长眠之地。
卡丽·罗切尔·戴维斯
迈克尔的爱妻、安杰尔的慈母
生于1966年5月2日
殁于1995年7月1日
坚硬的、灰暗的碑石如是说。碑文就是如此严苛率直, 即使是深夜闭上眼, 我也能看见它们。
环绕我们的是春天的气息。树林已是枝绿叶茂。我听到了孩子们在院子中嬉戏的声音；我还听到了绿地上割草机的轰鸣声。空气中洋溢着和煦的微风---它拂暖了你臂膀上的汗毛。
然而, 这一切都不是卡丽。耳后散发着香草芬芳的卡丽, 有着寒空中冰蓝的双眸的卡丽, 随着车内高音量的乐曲哼唱走调的卡丽。这是块死般静的地方, 它不是卡丽。我的卡丽会笑我如此痴心的。她定会希望我重新开始我的人生, 找一位我可以向她付出爱的女人的。然而, 每一个周日我们依旧来到这里。
安杰尔双膝跪着, 凝视着我放在地上的那束桔黄色的郁金香。“妈咪喜欢花儿吗？”她问道。“是的, 宝贝。她喜欢最鲜艳的花儿。这些花儿使她开心得很。”说这话时泪水直在我的眼眶里打转。我强忍住眼泪。然而, 在我觉得刚刚要平静下来时……
“妈咪什么时候回家呀？”我一下子心如刀绞, 没有回答她。看到我的样子, 安杰尔不禁用柔弱的双臂搂住了我的腿, 说道, “好了。那, 那让我们跟妈咪道声晚喃（安）吧。”我默默地点了点头。安杰尔随后起了身。
“妈咪, 再见了。当心别让虫子给叮了。”她拍一下墓碑顶部, 就像在拍一只爱犬的脑袋。我不禁笑了。对于她, 这里将永远是妈咪的睡榻, 而爸爸则不断地将束束鲜花放在她的床边。安杰尔永远也不会了解这个将她从医院抱回家的女人, 也不会晓得这个女人曾经整个晚上泣不成声, 只因为“她总有一天会长大、上学, 然后恋爱、嫁人, 而我则成了一个老奶奶。”这样想着, 一丝微笑不知不觉地挂在了我的嘴角。“过来吧, 美妞儿。我们一起回去玩过家家吧。”“那我能做妈咪吗？好吗？！”“当然可以了”。于是我俩转身离开了墓地, 一同去迎接下午的来临。
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elicits
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| 引出，探出( elicit的第三人称单数 ) | |
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fend
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| v.照料（自己），（自己）谋生，挡开，避开 | |
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3
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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4
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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5
buckled
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| a. 有带扣的 | |
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6
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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7
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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8
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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vanilla
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| n.香子兰，香草 | |
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bugs
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| adj.疯狂的，发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 )；病菌；虫子；[计算机]（制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的）错误 | |
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jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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