I like to say that my mother has never told me “I love you.” There’s something reassuring in its self-pitying simplicity—as if the three-word absence explains who I am and wins me sympathy—so I carry it with me, like a label on my back. I synthesize our cumbersome relationship with an easy shorthand: my mother never said “I love you” . The last time my mother almost spoke the words was two years ago, when she called to tell me that a friend had been hospitalized.

　　我常常说，妈妈从来没和我说过“我爱你”。这句有点自怜的简单话语听起来颇有些自我安慰的味道——仿佛这三个字的缺失就为我为什么成为现在的我提供了借口，还为我赢得了同情——于是，我总是把这句话挂在嘴边，就像把它贴在背上当标签一样。对于我和妈妈之间的这种微妙关系，我总是简单地用一句“谁让她从来不说‘我爱你’”来总结。上一次妈妈差点说出这几个字是在两年前，当时她给我打电话，告诉我她有个朋友住院了。

　　I said, “I love you, Mom.”

　　我对她说：“我爱你，妈妈。”

　　She said, “Thank you.”

　　而她说：“谢谢。”

　　I haven’t said it since, but I’ve thought about it, and I’ve wondered why my mother doesn’t. A couple of years ago, I found a poem by Robert Hershon14) called “Sentimental Moment or Why Did the Baguette Cross the Road?” that supplied words for the blank spaces I try to understand in our conversations:

　　这件事后来我再没提过，但却始终在我的脑海里盘旋不去，我一直想知道为什么我妈妈从来不说这几个字。几年前，我读到罗伯特·赫尔希写的一首诗，诗名叫《感伤的时刻或面包为什么要过马路?》，这首诗填补了我和妈妈的对话中许多我不能理解的空白：

　　Don’t fill up on bread

　　I say absent-mindedly

　　The servings here are huge

　　My son, whose hair may be

　　receding a bit, says

　　Did you really just

　　say that to me?

　　What he doesn’t know

　　is that when we’re walking

　　together, when we get

　　to the curb

　　I sometimes start to reach

　　for his hand

　　别用面包把肚子塞满了

　　我心不在焉地说

　　这儿的菜量大得很

　　我的儿子，我那发线已开始

　　后退少许的儿子，对我说

　　你怎么会

　　跟我说这样的话?

　　他不知道的是

　　当我们一起散步时，

　　当我们

　　走到马路边时，

　　我有时会不自觉地伸出手

　　想要去牵他的手