When I was very little the weekends at my father's house felt cold and unfriendly. During my teens the trips to a hostile house became a dread on the horizon for weeks beforehand. Each stay culminated in an uncomfortable peck on the cheek from Dad as he said goodbye – a moment I cringed about for hours in advance.
当我还很小的时候,那些在父亲家度过的周末让人感到冷淡而不友好。而在我青少年时期,去拜访那个不友好的家就意味着在那之前提早来临的几个礼拜的担心和恐惧。每次父亲和我道别时都会在我脸颊留下匆匆一吻,那让人不舒服,因而每每在此之前几小时我就开始害怕。
And yet standing beside the hospital bed watching the life ebb from my sleeping father was painful. I felt like a little girl at his bedside, unable to talk to him yet again. I became fixated with his fingers – fat and soft, lying gently curled beside him. Slowly they transformed from plump sausages to stone – white and immovable. It was his fingers that told me he had gone from this life, not the bleeping of monitors or the bustling of nursing staff.
然而,站在医院的病床边看着沉睡的父亲生命垂危,这让我痛苦不已。我觉得自己像个小姑娘,在他的床边,却无法再次和他说话。我注视着他的手指 - 肥厚而柔软,卷曲着放在他身旁。慢慢地,它们的颜色由红润转为苍白,并且不再动弹。这告诉我他已离开了人世,而此刻监视器的嘈杂声响和护士的忙乱已不能再说明什么。
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